


Gargoyles

by BannedBloodOranges



Category: Muppet Treasure Island (1996), Treasure Island - Robert Louis Stevenson
Genre: A lot of freaky stuff goes down in a south france hotel, Corrupt Businessman Silver, Dark Comedy, Demons, Dodgy Humour, Don't let any initial goofiness fool you this becomes straight up horror, Dubious Morality, Established Secret Relationship, F/M, He's worse here, Horror, Long John Silver is a bastard (but you already knew that), M/M, Manipulation, Modern AU, Multiple Perspectives, Pure Pulpy Indulgence, Reincarnations, Transformation, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-05-25 01:57:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 68,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14966645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BannedBloodOranges/pseuds/BannedBloodOranges
Summary: "It was if he had passed into a timeless place, shed centuries like skin and found something old. Truly, temptingly old, cut off from each and all."Under the tutelage of wealthy business man and surrogate father Smollett, orphan Jim Hawkins enjoys a three month business trip in a remote hotel on the beaches of Southern France. Joined by his two friends, Richard and Garrett, he looks forward to a relaxing getaway. But the return of a sickly John Silver from a business trip abroad brings ill omens. For when he miraculously recovers, his increasingly erratic and mysterious behaviour, refusal of sunlight and food, begins a sequence of events that leads swiftly to a nightmare.





	1. The Gargoyle

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me in a very vivid nightmare. Big warning - this is pure pulpy indulgence, a modern AU horror multichap. I hope you're all ready to come along with me for the ride for this one.
> 
> Characterisations and situations based on Muppet Treasure Island. Muppet characters are adapted into human roles, and play major parts, especially Garrett (Gonzo) and Richard (Rizzo.) This is for non-profit fun only.

The famous driftwood path spanned the beaches like a long white lizard, shy of the storming coast. Jim had seen the beginnings of it as they had driven from the airport. A gate, baked in the heat, a sign for tourists swinging in the breeze, and the plush sand pushed up beneath the hammered boards. It was unremarkable at first, but Garrett had been far too excited at the sight of it, grabbing Jim’s arm and pointing it out, as if it alone carried all the secrets of their getaway.

Beside the gate Jim had seen an old woman. Shawls and skirts bundled on her frame made her appear like a large moving duvet, streaked white hair curling down her face, and at her feet, a half blind old dog, trotting to keep up. She was picking up large seashells and placing them in a sack over her back.

Garrett meanwhile had spoken fondly of the local folklore. The driftwood path was made from collected shipwrecks and boats from the 17th century. Pirates, privateers, navy men, it mattered not where it came from. Any wood that had survived the sea, had carried peoples to safety, had swerved from the traitorous rocks and docked in safe ports, carried with it the promise of protection. The lucky souls who had relied on their voyaging ships crafted the path, the path that gave safe passage from the woods to the towns to the docks. It was miles long, and the myth was, that if you walked upon it, even with the winds high and trouble whispering in the sky, that no evil would touch you. The path would deliver you as it delivered so many others.

The hotel shone white and bright in the sun. Richard wound down his window, and looking out, whistled at the gold copperplate writing, the large red lobby, the marble floors and paved entrance ways.

Garrett stuck his head out and stared instead at the rock faces climbing high over the towns and hotel, a mighty lock from the outside world.

Jim looked back toward the path, which had now vanished from sight, although he could see its tell-tale snake in the distance, and Jim pulled out his father’s compass, and smoothed the face of it with his thumb.

 

* * *

 

It was a strange sight in the buttery sunshine of southern France, along the gold-soaked beaches and the scent of summer fruits and flowers. For above Jim’s window, there was a gargoyle. Bent over at its stone waist, a knobbly spine peeked from the end of its long tail to its proud head, which had the face of a crow and the tongue of a lizard. It was old, far too old for the white washed hotel, and if Jim looked up closely, he could see that it had been sealed into the wall, an ancient setting in new stone façade. It faced the driftwood path.

“Fancy that being right outside your window,” Richard clucked his tongue. He’d snuck into Jim’s premier room with Garrett earlier that hour; Jim had barely had a chance to unpack. Jim’s room was better, so called, but he was going to have to work harder than Garret and Richard both. For them, this was the equivalent of a quasi-vacation. All they had to do was attend some boring dinner meetings. Jim had to _represent_ Smollett’s shipping company.  “I was gonna complain that your room is bigger, but no thanks to that freaky deaky piece of stoneware. I prefer sleep.”

Richard hadn’t just complained about the room, but also the hot sun, the chlorine in the pool, the death defying drop from their bedroom window (Garrett and he were in the room directly above Jim’s.) But regardless, he had already been out in the sun plenty. It had bronzed his sandy skin, raised up all his boy like freckles.

Garrett squeezed out beside Jim and balancing himself on the windowsill, took out his camera and twisted up to snap it.

“I think it’s cool,” he chirped. “It adds character, don’t you think?”

“The only character it adds is to my nightmares.” Richard stretched himself out on Jim’s bed, eyeing the mini fridge. “You know Jim, to compensate the size of your room, I’m gonna ransack your snack bar.”

“Hey!” Jim sprung away from the window. “Don’t! You know that stuff is outrageously expensive, right?”

“What you say?” Richard, his mouth already stuffed with peanuts, spat crumbs over his bedspread. “Didyousaysomething?”

“For _god’s sake,_ Richard!”

Jim lunged. Richard almost choked on his nuts, rolling off the bed as Jim caught him, and in a tangle of limbs and laughter, they landed on the carpet, wrestling and pulling at each other’s hair.

“Garrett!” shrieked Richard, as Jim twisted his arm behind his back (not too hard.) “Garrett! Help your fellow brother in arms, you coward!”

But Garrett was still outside, leaning dangerously out, clicking the underside of his new best friend.

“Guys! It’s weird. From the right, it looks like he’s smiling. From the left, like he’s unhappy. How do they _do_ that?”

“Garrett!” They groaned in unison.

“God damn it,” Richard rolled off Jim, shaking the crumbs out of his rat brown hair. “I know you’re in the middle of ground breaking discovery Garrett, but must you lean so far out? I am _not_ peeling your arse off the pavement.”

“I’m safe!” Garrett effused, before adding with a smile; “Some of us like to live a little, you know?”

“Died after trying to photoshoot some shit cheap touristy gargoyle. Yeah, that’ll look really majestic on your death certificate.”

Garrett turned to retort, almost dropping his camera, but Jim reached and caught it, and Garrett too, by the worn green of his t-shirt.

“You’ve gotta be careful, Garrett,” He said, gentler then Richard, who rolled his eyes and went back to raiding the fridge. “Don’t want anything to happen to you. Who am I going to hang out, huh?”

“And what am I, chopped liver?” piped up Richard, stuffed with crisps and half a bar of marzipan chocolate.

“You’re fine,” Garrett bit back, before nodding at Jim with a secret smile, and settling back inside, leaning soft on Jim as he did so. His dreadlocks were spun above his head, mussed by the high winds, and his eyes – black and blue, a quirk that just added to Garrett’s endless list of quirks – winked at Jim. “I’m the adventurer. All you do is snark and eat. I say I’m better company.”

“I would slap you for that,” Richard took a swig of beer. “If this mini fridge wasn’t so delightful.” He spread his arms like a priest. “So I’m willing to forgive that transgression.”

“Can you spell that?”

“Fuck off.”

A stern knock broke the merry making.

Jim and Garrett jolted upright. Richard swore breathlessly, jamming a beanie hat over his hair and piercings.

Jim pulled his shirt straight and opened the door.

Mr Arrow, flat browed with his flat lined mouth, stood with his arms crossed.

“I do not see a valid reason why you have company, Mr Hawkins.”

“We were comparing rooms, sir.” Jim said.

“A strange pastime. I merely wanted you to know that dinner is at five tonight. There will be business associates, so dress correctly to reflect our company’s core values.”

“Of course.” Jim bowed his head. “I will be there.”

“Oh yes,” Arrow added mildly. “Tell Garrett and Richard that they are also to attend.”

The two young men shared a pained groan.

“And also…!” He snapped, rising his voice enough to demand complete silence (or just enough to make Richard wince.) “I expect no foul language to be heard in rooms, private or not. You represent this company, and even in your leisure time…” He curled his lip at the very prospect, before continuing; “Mr Smollett and I expect pristine conduct. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.” They all parroted in unison.

“Good.” Arrow turned away, stalking down the hall, before pausing, as if he’d forgotten something. (Arrow never forgot anything, Jim pondered dryly.) “A word of warning. Our close working associate, John Silver, shall be landing back from the Caribbean at 6 0’clock tomorrow. Smollett wanted all employers to be aware of this fact.”

By employers, Jim knew Smollett had meant him. Arrow took a heavy sigh, as if such information was wholly unnecessary, and turned down the hallway, out of sight.

Silver was coming back.

Jim’s heart pounded.

Behind him, Garrett and Richard exchanged looks.

 

* * *

 

 

Smollett’s shipping company was huge, with many firms in most places around the world, and Jim, poor orphaned Jim, he was proud of that, but mostly intimidated. Smollett’s surprise intervention on his thirteenth birthday had changed his life. His worn out foster mother, Mrs. Bluveridge, had been suspicious of the wealthy gentlemen who spoke of a past relationship with Jim’s mother, and how he had promised to support the boy when he came of age, and it was like something out of Dickens, except Smollett was no Fagin and Jim was certainly no Oliver.

Jim was out of charity shop clothes and hand me downs in an instant, for Mrs Bluveridge knew a golden opportunity when she saw one. At sixteen, he was taken on as a natural apprentice in Smollett’s firm, and he believed he worked hard, for Smollett was kind but not stupid, and luckily, Jim was determined to prove himself.  Arrow, Smollett’s right-hand man and closest friend, a capital perfectionist if there ever was one, had praised Jim’s efforts as impressive, and as far as Jim was considered, that was Arrow’s way of appointing him as teenage CEO.

As par Jim’s request, Smollett took on two other boys that had been fostered under Mrs. Bluveridge, five years his senior sci fi mad adventurer Garrett and pessimist Richard, who claimed his parents were magicians at birth (they both made themselves vanish and were never seen again.)

They were all lonely and strange and stuck together, misfits and mismatches that had to make themselves fit like rouge puzzle pieces left behind in an empty box. But they managed. Richard’s metabolism was out of control, Garrett’s curiosity was frankly dangerous, and well, Jim had nothing but an antique compass left behind by his mother as a gift in memory of his father, and no idea of who and what he was going to be.

Now, just nearing his twentieth birthday, Jim was in Southern France for three months with his makeshift family. Or, as knowing Smollett, it was a business trip in name only. That previous month, Smollett had finally married his fiancée, a curvaceous socialite by the name of Benjamina Gunn, and whilst she was loud and flirty and everything Smollett was not, she was also generous and warm and full of the spirit of luxury. Jim knew this trip had something to do with her, if not anything else.

Smollett was gentle enough to permit Jim some recreational time with his friends, especially if he was to be distracted by his new wife. It was the high-strung Arrow that would be less inclined to permit leisure.

But everything was changing again.

John Silver was coming back.

 

* * *

 

“Is this the best they can do?” Benjamina’s silken voice had a habit of carrying. Arrow poked at his fish and salad and tried frowning harder. “Why, praline truffles? I must say, mon ami, for the prices they charge, I simply must have marzipan.”

“But darling,” Smollett’s voice, faraway to Jim, was impossibly tender. “I can fetch you marzipan later.”

“Praline is fine for me,” Richard said to no-one but himself. “Hey, do you think she’s going leave them?”

 The long summer night was finally finding darkness. It fell sensual on the windows, a blue half-light, transparent on the rolling clouds. The dining room was near empty, groups of stragglers and tired looking businessmen. Jim hadn’t touched his food.

“Hey, you not hungry, Jim?”

Jim started at Richard’s hand on his shoulder. He investigated Richard’s searching face and saw that he was hopeful, but also concerned, and for him to feel concern when there was food to be had, well, Jim wondered what his silence was like. Usually, no-one noticed.

“Not hungry.” He smoothed the plate to Richard. “You have it. I- I just think I’ll have a drink instead.”

Wrapping a bread roll in a napkin, he slipped out into the night.

 

* * *

 

The tide greeted him like a half-forgotten memory. The damp air was a freeing rush, and Jim breathed it in, trying to stall the frantic fever of his heart. Along the coast he walked, on a remote drift wood path that seemed to spiral off for miles, _the_ driftwood path. He strolled past the old woman who lifted her grey head and glowered at him in silence. Jim murmured a polite good evening, and paying her no more mind, crossed over to sit on the sands and watch the long still line of water shimmer beneath the moon.

Silver loved the sea. Ironic really, that he would find shares in Smollett’s shipping company. He had told Jim of his childhood in Bristol docks the second week Jim had been assigned to his firm. A single mother, no shoes on his feet, just the sand and salt for company. They had been in Spain a year ago. A year when it all began.

Jim unwrapped his napkin. The bread roll was stuffed with bacon and tomatoes. Jim laughed. Garrett, of course. He knew him too well. Slipped in his bag was a bag of crisps, a diet coke and several pieces of fruit.

“Are you going to eat all that?” A cracked voice broke his thoughts. The old woman was waddling nearer, her sack half slipped off her bony shoulder. At her feet was a mutt that whined at the sight of bacon.

Jim looked up at her, and with a shrug and a smile, offered her the untouched bun.

“No.” He said. “You can have it, if you like.”

She huffed, laid down her bag and stick, and sitting beside him, took it without a word.

Jim remained staring out to sea, nothing but the sounds of the waves on the shore and the wet slap of her eating. She tore off pieces of the bacon and threw it to the yipping dog. Jim played with a pebble between his fingers. An awkward quiet bloomed.

“Do you know about this path?” She spoke up roughly. “It’s very old. And very important.”

“How so?” Jim asked, well-mannered.

“It was made over three hundred years ago.” She rapped it with her knuckles. “It was crafted from old ships, pirate ships, navy ships, all manner of bracken and twig that ever made a hull. They say that if you walk along it, no demon or spirit can touch you.”

“It’s very long,” Jim eyed the length of it. It trailed off into the distance, the white wood craft snake. Garrett would be fascinated by it, and by her. “Why did they believe that it could protect them?”

“They say the spirits of old sailors protect it,” Leaning on her stick, she rattled to her feet. In the moonlight, Jim could see her better. Her hair was curled down her back, thin on top with her scalp visible, and that her tawny, sun spotted skin was peeled back onto her bones. Her cataract eyes fixed on him. “If you are ever in trouble, walk along it. I find no evil on it. Never.”

Jim tried a smile.

“That’s good to know.”

The dog trotted over and sniffed his bag hopefully. Jim got down on his knees. The dog bolted back, a growl in its old throat, before Jim took out a leftover bag of jerky and the dog sat, heavy, gnarled and white around his muzzle, salivating.

“May I feed him?”

“Do what you want.” The old woman alleged, although her tone was hoarse and faded, as if trying to hold back tears.

“What’s his name?”

“He has no name.” She replied, hard. Then, as if appearing to think about it, she confirmed; “I call him Stray. Like me, no home, no name.”

“I like him.”

“Aye, he’s grumpy.”

Stray finished the pack with no problem. After he was done, he trotted to the old woman’s side, and watched Jim from behind her stocking legs with eyes like lanterns.

“I better be getting back.” Jim got to his feet. He wondered how old she was, and where she lived. In a motel? On a shack on the beach? “My friends will be worried.”

“Good friends they be,” The woman spoke slowly. Her eyes shone like Stray’s in the twilight. “To prepare food for you.”

 “Thank you for the story,” Jim zipped up his jacket. The warmth was fading now, to a biting chill off the sea. He wasn’t going to ask how she could know. He handed her the rest of the food. “I have a friend of mine that would love to hear it.”

As he went to leave, her thin hand pressed something heavy and cold in his palm.

“To keep the spirits off your back,” she murmured, and without another word, she hobbled off the path and into the dark, her dog at her heels.

The wind swept the sand on the driftwood path. Jim was once again, alone. Shaking his head, he uncurled his palm.

It was a tiny human skull, carved from white stone, a red bandana painted bloody on its crown. A black cord was looped through its bared teeth, long enough and strong enough for a necklace.

 Jim knew Garrett would kill for an opportunity like this, as if he’d walked into a 70s pulp pirate zombie novel or something. But it was the 21st century, and a hot June night in summer in Southern France, and two miles away partygoers were raving in dark clubs with modern music, and back at the hotel, Richard and Garrett would be watching bad horror movies, and Arrow would be on the telephone to investors, and Smollett and Benjamina would be eating marzipan sweets.

But despite the comforting promise of normalcy, Jim felt alone, standing there, in the absence of the mad woman and her dog. It was if he had passed into a timeless place, shed centuries like skin and found something old. Truly, temptingly old, cut off from each and all.

He’d felt this when his mother died.

He missed Silver, suddenly. A pulling yank on his emotional chain, and yes, yes he would see him tomorrow, and yes, the plane was already on its way here, and soon the sky would be alive with the noise of airports and birds and screaming children on holiday.

He began to walk home, searching for the ahead lights of the hotel.

He would tell Silver everything.

If anybody understood bizarre encounters, it was John Silver.

 

* * *

 

It seemed so long ago since that balcony in Spain, overlooking the ocean and Silver and Jim, looking up at the stars.

“That be Polaris, Jim.” Silver always talked about the heavens, bearings, old legends and myths. In another life, he would have been a sailor, Jim was sure of it. He pointed a finger at a single star, shining fat and bright above the others. “The North star. You could be in the China sea, and that would still be North.”

Silver, in his loose open shirt and work trousers, his striking face upturned toward the stars, and in him, there had been an awe. _John_ , for the first time without his prosthetic, his crutch propped under his arm, and Jim had known that it was rare, almost intimate, to see him that way, and his breast had clenched so tight and painful he couldn’t breathe.

“My own father told me that,” He had said wistfully. “Before he went away to fish, and never came back.”

“How old were you?” Jim had counted back his own years. He knew his mother, never his father, who he assumed had died before his memory had given him shape. He clutched the compass close to his side, feeling the lovely heft of it.

“Eight.” Silver had smirked – his wily, age old smirk – and sat heavily down, aided by Jim. “To be without a parent, Jim. A scar that leaves, that it does.”

They were both scarred then, Jim had deduced. A scar that matched, a scar that joined, one where they knew the shape of the other. It was a romantic idea, and more then that, a stupid one.

Jim was thinking too hard, counting the stars around Polaris, before Silver’s hand had found the curve of his cheek, stroking oh so slow and soft.

Jim had shivered, shivered at the blunt, famished look in his eye, and the beautiful sky above, and the talk of scars and stars.

“Smollett won’t…”

“He needn’t know, Jim.” His thumb worked against Jim’s neck, pressing just a little, enough to make Jim melt and a moan to pass his lips. “Nobody’s business but ours, lad.”

Jim was young and naïve, but he had resisted advances before. But he had known no advances like Silver’s, and he had known nobody like Silver.

“You’re too much,” he scowled, only for Silver to grin, that wide and dangerous grin, a bright light for all idiot moths.

Silver’s mouth was hot and alive and demanded more breath then Jim had to spare. Silver, open and yearning for him, and Jim, giving in.

 

* * *

 

It was a violet sunset with a violent sky. Thunder rumbled as Jim watched the plane touch on the tarmac outside. Arrow and Smollett stood together, their words a witter in the background of Jim’s hearing. His skin itched under the burning heat of the glass. His chest felt as if it was opening, closing, opening and closing like an indecisive flower. He had been in the car already waiting to leave for the airport as Smollett and Arrow had drifted into the front seats, barely noticing his presence. He had left Garrett, Richard and Benjamina at the hotel playing poker. Garrett had look forlorn as Jim had left, but selfishly, he’d barely had enough space in his mind to feel guilty.

He didn’t have much space in his mind for anything else, not today, not any other day beyond this one.

Arrow had said how well it was that Jim showed his support so openly to fellow investors. Jim had smiled, secretly picking the skin off his cuticles, counting the houses until they reached the flat, chrome shine of the airport.

The stairlift descended. Arrow was fussing Smollett about having a hot chocolate in this weather. Smollett buzzed back that hot drinks were more refreshing then cold ones, and there was actual science to back this up, and when did he become his mother?

Jim bit through the back of his thumbnail.

The sun reflected on Silver’s dark glasses as he descended the stairs. Dressed in a black suit with a red tie, his black curls arranged in a ponytail, he was impossible to miss. He gestured to bodyguard Jerry to bring down his suitcase. The men exchanged laughter as Jerry pretended to struggle, buying time to flirt with the unsmiling air hostess. Jim placed a hand on the glass, just shy of where Silver was standing.

Silver bent to adjust his prosthetic, a black chrome leg with a white ivory finish, and brushed the dust from his jacket. As he stood, the sun hit him fully, and his skin appeared, for a moment, too pale, sheened with sweat and a blue pallor. But then, aided by Jerry, he passed beyond and below the window, and Jim sped on his heel, rushing past the still bickering Smollett and Arrow.

“I-I’ll greet him,” He said quickly, as they turned to stare. “You’ll stay here. I’ll bring him to you. No use all of us going, right?”

“That’s very helpful, Jim,” Smollett nodded with a smile, and took a defiant swig of his hot chocolate.

Arrow, as he always did with anything that inspired gusto, merely looked suspicious.

 

* * *

 

The arrival lounge was already empty of people. Jim stood by the baggage reclaim, feeling as if every nerve was on fire. He heard the high laughter of Silver, echoing fierce down the hall, and just over the elevator, he appeared, looking every bit the handsome devil, if still a little off colour. There was a sway to his movements, a pulled and distracted sense about him, despite his gaiety.

He took off his glasses and rubbed the space between his eyes with a hard chuckle, before Jerry looked ahead, and seeing Jim, smacked his boss on the shoulder.

Silver stalled. He glanced over, and Jim was suddenly afraid, for all expression left his face.

Then he grinned from ear to ear, diamond teeth on full display.

“My, my,” He declared, mid west country accent a husk on his words. “Are _you_ duty free, Jim Lad?”

In the privacy of the empty lounge, Jim ran to him. Silver’s arms were around him in seconds, whole and warm and returned to each other, and despite the fact he had been on a plane, Silver still smelt like a cookshop beneath his expensive cologne. Breaking apart, Jim cupped his face and kissed him, Silver working his tongue hard against Jim’s lips, and they held on so tight it was a miracle they could breath.

“Jim, my Jim,” Silver whispered against his ear. “Came to meet me, did you?”

“Smollett and Arrow are here.” Jim rested his head in Silver’s neck. Despite the roaring heat, Silver felt cold. “I – I said I would greet you for them.”

“Smart lad.” Silver kissed the crown of his head. “What a surprise it be, to see you here. It sweetens the direness of seeing ol’ Arrow again.”

“Silver!” Jim whined, but he grinned himself, and Jerry clucked his tongue in fake disapproval. “They are expecting you. The hotel is swanky, your style.”

“My own room, Jim?”

“An executive suite.”

“Tempting. And yourself?”

“I have a basic room. Nothing too fancy.”

He made no point of mentioning the gargoyle.

As they entered the main lobby, they kept their respective distances, but Silver’s regaling tales carried Jim’s spirits higher. Even with the secrecy, just being back with him was electrifying. Smollett rose at the sight of Silver. Arrow discreetly binned the hot chocolate, before he too spotted Silver. He did not smile. Smollett did, albeit it rather tightly.

“John! What a pleasure.” Smollett extended his hand. Silver, smile in place like social lipstick, shook it politely. “I trust the trip was a success?”

“Everything is in place.” Silver answered, proud. “There be no better diplomat then I. You have your shares, Smollett.”

“A worthy effort, Silver.” Arrow cut in. “I understand all transactions were _legitimised.”_

Smollett smiled harder. If he could have stepped on Arrow’s foot and gotten away with it, Jim reckoned he would have done so with Doc Martins.

Silver didn’t blink.

“Why of course, sir.” He said slowly, softly. “I wish only the best for our bosom companies. And must I say, Smollett, what a taskmaster you have here in young Hawkins. I must _insist…”_ He drew the word out, making all the hairs on Jim’s neck tingle. “He accompanies me on my next trip.”

“Why, yes,” Smollett said, offhand. “I’m sure it would be. Jim is very capable. Now, how about we go to the hotel and relax, you must be exhausted, and uh, dinner of course…”

“Jim cannot go with you,” Arrow declared stonily. “He is too young. Barely an apprentice.”

“Oh.” Silver nodded, slight. He caught Jim’s eye and curled his lip. “What a pity.”

Arrow looked between them. Jim focused on the discounted perfume.

“Dinner!” Smollett said suddenly. “We can debate this later. I have a testy new wife waiting.”

“I’ll tell her you spoilt your appetite with hot chocolate,” added Arrow, as they got into the car. Smollett, completely by accident Jim was sure, stood hard on his foot on the way in.

 

* * *

 

The sun had set by the time they arrived at the hotel. Small talk had been excruciating. Smollett had gestured warmly for Jim to come sit beside him, before Jerry had thrown himself down beside the older man, taking out his crossword puzzle and pen.

Arrow had coughed so hard he could have produced a furball.

Jim had endured the heat of Silver instead, the playful taps on knee, and god forbid, further up his thigh. By the time the car pulled up, Jim’s cheeks were blazing, and he was dazed by the journey, the touches, the sheer hit of seeing John again.

As they entered the lobby, the light was scalding in its brightness, and Silver bit back a groan and massaged his temples. Sweat was beading along his brow, purple bruised beneath his eyes and shadows ducked in his cheeks. Despite the teasing, he moved slow, visibly tired.

Smollett and Arrow were ahead, walking toward the lift, hedged in discreetly by Jerry. Jim shot a quick look at them, before his hand lingered, concerned, on Silver’s back. Silver leant into the caress, relaxing.

“I be jetlagged, Jim,” He said, haggard. “That is all it be, no worries.”

“You look exhausted,” Jim whispered under his breath. Close as they might appear, it was not company protocol to comment on one’s health. Arrow’s head was already turning. Jerry stepped quickly to the side, blocking him from view. “Maybe you need to rest. Skip dinner, order room service.”

Despite his sallowness, Silver smiled.

“Is that an invitation, Jim-Lad?”

“Mr Hawkins!” Arrow’s demand broke the quiet. Silver tensed, gritting his teeth into a cordial grin. Jim removed his hand, sharpish. “I trust we cannot hold the lift forever, yes?”

“My heavens, no,” Silver replied, teeth achingly sweet. “I believe that even Christ would halt his coming for you, Samuel.”

The use of his given name was a call to war. As were the dark looks exchanged between the men in the lift, for Silver’s condition was deteriorating his good mood. Even Smollett couldn’t think of a thing to say, instead complimenting Jerry on his crossword skills.

The lift ascended. Silver was breathing hard, his hand over his eyes, but still talking, still coaxing Smollett into hints about his wife, his honeymoon, his business plan. But all the humour of their secret greeting waned like the blood in his cheeks, and somehow, his face, crooked and pulled in smiles and frowns, reminded Jim of the gargoyle perched outside his window, one smiling face toward the world, the other full of secret pain and kept completely to itself.

 


	2. Dinner

Outside, Silver smoked, plume clouds misting his face from view. Jim, kept close by Arrow, was worried. The buffet was enormous but Silver, usually of a voracious appetite, had looked sick at the prospect of grilled fish and salads, and strayed far from the plates, instead refilling his wine glass and sipping it by the windows, staring darkly out at the sea.

“Is he okay?” Silver had been warm to Garrett and Richard when he arrived, especially to the former, for whom he was especially fond. Jim was grateful at Garrett’s question, and more then that, grateful for Garrett, who was more then a welcome relief from Arrow. “He doesn’t seem himself. When and how does he turn down steak?”

“I’m worried.” Jim could and should have bitten his tongue. It was a personal admission, but right now, his anxiety was such he didn’t care. Garrett didn’t say anything, just rested his steady hand on Jim’s shoulder, and Jim, barely thinking, leant into it. “Maybe it is jetlag. Or he picked something up, I don’t know, I just…”

“It’s the jetlag, Jim.” Garrett said firmly, as way of comfort. “Give a night’s rest and he’ll be driving Arrow fucknuts, just wait and see.”

“I can only hope.”

“Can only pray.”

“Garrett, not so loud. He’s on the warpath.” But Jim was smiling, and then, he remembered. “You know, I went for a walk last night along the driftwood path.”

“You did?” Garrett’s mouth fell open. “What, without me? Oh c’mon Jim, you can’t leave me hanging like that.”

“I only walked half a mile.”

“Did you see any ghosts?”

“No.”

“Any demons? Any supernatural activity? Any flashes of light, odd sounds from the sea, grieving screams of departed sailor widows?”

“Garrett!” Jim steadied him, sighing. “No. But I did meet someone rather weird. You know, the old lady we saw picking up shells?”

“Wait, what?” Garrett’s mismatched eyes shone. “You mean…the old witch with her dog familiar?”

“Garrett, I met an old lady collecting seashells for a craft project.” Jim said dully. “She told me about the driftwood path, the history and such. I had this sandwich, and she asked me for it, and…”

“Oh yeah.” Garrett looked away, scratching the end of his nose. “I figured you weren’t going to eat.”

Jim stared at him curiously.

“Anyway, she seemed convinced that the myths were real. Maybe as a thank you for feeding her dog, I don’t know, but she gave me this talisman.”

“Talisman? Really?” Garrett looked him up and down. “Do you have it now?”

“It’s in my room,” Jim nodded toward the lift. “She said it would keep the spirits off my back. I have to show it to you later, I can’t describe what it looks like.”

“Jim?” Jerry stood over the two boys. Unlike Silver, the plate he carried was heaving. “Garrett? You lads ok?”

“Yeah.” Jim smiled, snapping back the conversation. For some reason, he didn’t want anyone else to know about his encounter on the path, and by the quick nod and smile of Garrett, he knew that as well. “You hungry, Mr Calico?”

“Not as hungry as my boss,” he rumbled. “Do me a favour, Jim. Go out there and try to convince him to eat somethin’. He’s been fastin’ like a damn supermodel since we left for this place.”

“Sure.” Jim winked at Garrett. “Make sure Richard isn’t hoovering through the banquet, okay? I’ll see you later, Jerry.”

He meant to say Mr Calico. He meant to.

 

* * *

 

The veranda squared off from the main doors, ending in a balcony that looked out toward the diamante sea. Silver was cornered in right at the end of the railings, a hearty trek from the dining hall, and upon seeing Jim, he lit a fresh cigarette.

“Jim-Lad.” He said, soft and sounding a little dangerous. The snatch of his match illuminated his lidded eyes, all lazy shades of aqua green. “I was waiting for you to come join me.”

“You know people are not supposed to see us together, right?” From here, they were out of sight of the company. Benjamina’s sparkling laughter tinkled in the air, comfortingly distant. “I’m trying to stop suspicion. Arrow…”

“Sammy Arrow believes the world is out of get ‘im,” Silver blew a pillow of smoke into Jim’s face. He gagged, turning away, only for Silver to reach out and hold his chin, thumb rubbing the corner of his lips. He added forebodingly; “He wouldn’t be wrong.”

Jim coughed.

“How can you smoke that stuff?”

“Aye. You’ll never get a cold if you smoke, Jim.”

“Yeah, but you get cancer.”

“Heh.” Smoke steamed from between his teeth as he spoke. Jim was sure he had them whitened, to save any staining from the nasty tobacco, even if the sight was frustratingly sexy. “And what do you care of that, Jim-Lad?”

“Well, Silver- _Lad_. I was told to come here by Jerry and see you eat something.”

Silver made a face like a fussy kid.

“No, Jim. Jetlag does a number on the appetite. Place isn’t a patch on my cooking, anyhow.”

Back in Spain, Silver had turned down gourmet dining to cook for Jim. It was one of the few things he did without reserve, without payment, and fully for the pleasure of it. Jim mused fondly, and Silver saw that, for he grinned and took another puff.

“I miss your cooking.”

“Aye.” Silver tapped his ashes into a pot plant. “And did you miss me, Jim?”

“Don’t be stupid.” The anxiety was still there, bound up in his chest like a cold knot, and Silver spread his red lips, leaning away from the rail toward Jim. The smell of the sea was full and pungent, the aroma of burning tobacco singeing through the salt. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”

“Do I?” Silver leant in toward Jim, and palmed Jim’s cheek, holding him tight, close, a little uncomfortable.

“John…”

“Sssshhh.” Silver brought his sizzling flame to his lips, inhaled, and pushing forward until his cheek brushed Jim’s, exhaled into Jim’s open mouth.

It scorched Jim’s throat but he managed to stand still, legs jellied by Silver’s slow, sensuous chuckle.

“Did you miss me, Jim?” He intoned, so low only Jim could hear.

“Yes.” He confirmed, burning breathless. “God yes.”

“Hmmm.” Pleased at the fact, Silver ran his fingers down Jim’s shirt, unbuttoning his collar, gaping it wide. “And what say you come to my room tonight, hm?”

“I can’t.” Jim struggled to work his tongue. “You know I can’t, not right now.”

“And why not?”

“Arrow. Smoll _ett_ …!” He squeaked. Silver’s prosthetic leg had hitched between his thighs, rubbing high and slow. “I-It’s not f-feasible…John, can you please…!”

“Heh.” But Silver was already moving to his neck, sucking gently, even with a surprising scratch of teeth that plummeted straight into Jim’s groin. His breath agitated the sensitive skin of Jim’s lobe. “Please what, Hawkins?”

Jim made some rudimentary noise, a slack of vowels and groans that sounded suspiciously like “I hate you.” Silver snickered, softening as Jim huddled closer into him, moaning deft as Silver’s leg pushed deeper into his trouser.

“Mr Hawkins?” The shrill tone of Samuel Arrow ignited a growl from Silver. Jim, as per custom, went to break apart quickly. Silver, however, had other ideas.

“John, let me go.”

Jim detached himself just in time. As if on cue, Arrow appeared at the door, crossing the paving like a funeral march made human flesh. Silver’s glare was poisonous, directed beyond Arrow’s broad shoulders to Jerry, who could only offer a sheepish shrug.

“Well, I be off to bed.” Silver brusquely handed Jim his wine glass, uncharacteristically full. “I bid you goodnight, gentlemen.”

He stalked past Arrow, a point of rudeness impossible to ignore, and whistling sharply between his teeth, summoned Jerry to collect his luggage.

Behind him was a ringing silence. Jim put the glass on the table, his back to Arrow, who was tutting at the cigarette left to die in the ashtray.

“Mr Hawkins?”

Jim turned, polite. His shirt was partially undone – Arrow’s eagle eye had spotted it, but oddly enough, he didn’t mention it. Beneath his steel he wore a weak, contemplative expression, as if unsure of what to say.

“You have settled in, I trust?”

“Yes sir.”

“Jim…” Arrow cleared his throat. His first name was an alien title on Arrow’s lips and he took a deep breath, as if he had prepared the upcoming speech in his head as agonisingly as his infallible paperwork. “I appreciate you are a young man, looking for his independence, and in such ways, will hope to find contacts and colleagues. But I must warn you…” He pursed his mouth, and again, cleared his throat. “That despite his charisma and wit and way of talking, that some people may find appealing, John Silver is a…difficult man. I want you to tread carefully when dealing with him, and whilst we may remain respectful…”

Jim was reminded of the quick-fire taunts, the dropped comments. Naturally, he merely listened obediently.

“…it is best to keep some relationships as purely professional. He is keen to befriend you, but I fear it is due to your youth and relative inexperience that he might find some link to exploit. We must protect the company at all costs, and…”

He cleared his throat. Thrice.

“…you need to look after yourself, and your family. I just wanted to make sure you were aware always who and what you deal with in the name of business. Business is one thing but mixing the personal within it can be disastrous. Am I clear?”

Jim felt the sting on his neck where Silver had bit.

“I will consider what you say.” Jim was bemused, mostly, and surely, he should be angry, but right now he just felt bizarrely touched. Regardless he said the right thing, for Arrow nodded, relieved, as if he had wrestled a bear with his bare hands and lived to tell the tale.

“Excellent.” Arrow backed away from Jim, looking ahead toward the party, the lights catching in the solemn grey of his eyes. “Good. Now that is done, I suggest you go to sleep. We have a busy day ahead tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course.” Jim nodded, feeling along his neck to the nip. As Arrow left, Jim pulled his hand back. On his fingers was the faint prickle of blood.

 

* * *

 

What a morning they woke to. The sky was candy blue, the tide high and roaring.

Of course, Garrett was up.

Jim’s alarm clock was beeping eight when there came the knock at the door.

“Jim? Jim, you awake?”

It was a good thing Jim loved Garrett.

“Well tough, you’ll be awake now. Jim. Jim. Jim…”

Maybe.

“Jim Jim Jimmy Jim Jim…”

Maybe not, now he thought of it.

Jim kicked off his blankets, staving off his morning wood (damn you Silver, damn you) and limped to his door. On perfect cue, it burst open.

“Jimmy!” Garrett’s beam was such it could rival the sun. He had a board tucked under one arm, an inflatable boat in the other, stripped down to his alien swimming trunks and a duffel bag swept over one shoulder. Sunlight poured in through the open windows in the hall, sparkling on his ruby umber skin, outlining his loose dreads in a rosy glow. He was a sight for sore eyes, the glory of the morning person. Or as Richard would say, the devil.

“I’m up.” Jim said, deadpan.

“Oh.” Garrett replied, still smiling that radiant morning smile. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

The board Garrett was carrying, by some unfathomable circumstance, ended up smacked on his head.

 

* * *

 

It was really a beautiful morning. Stealing a handful of fruit from the buffet for breakfast, the boys descended the hill from the veranda, keeping away from the main beaches, instead settling for the private stretch of sand that ran adjacent to the driftwood path. Around them the mountains curled inward, impossibly high and easy to see in the clear bright day.

Jim paddled up to his knees, enjoying the soothe of the water on his mosquito bites, as Garrett rushed in with a yell, kicking off his board and splashing forward into the waves. Jim laughed, holding up an arm to protect himself from the ensuring spray, and it wasn’t long before he was pulled in too, soaking up to his t-shirt and shorts, and their laughter rang up and around. They raced from one end to the breaker to the next, one on the dinghy, another on the board and vice versa, and the morning rolled, lazy and hot, until finally the sun drove them to the shade, where they ate their fruit, happily tired, the best kind of drowsy.

“You know, there’s not much info on this path.” Garrett had clicked his camera so many times Jim was certain he had photographed every single board. “There’s only a sign and one paragraph talking about it. Legend is you have to ask the locals.”

“Speaking of legends.” Jim opened his bag and brought out the talisman. In the sun, it looked suitably ruined, a crumbling limestone skull dangling off knotted rope. Garrett’s eyes rounded. “Here it is. To keep the spirits off my back, she said.”

Garrett cupped it in his palm, feeling his thumb across the dent of the eyes.

“Can I take a picture?”

“Sure.” Jim sat it on the sand, scooting back to give Garrett room. The little skull head looked like it was watching the waves. Why it should look like it was watching anything was a mystery.

Garrett clicked, turning this way and that, as if the little charm was privy to a photoshoot. Jim flopped down on the sand, picking the pips out of his half-eaten apple. From where he lay, he could see the top stories of the hotel. The gargoyle faced them, its raven head positioned down toward the coast.

Jim sat up, rubbed his arms, and seeing Garrett flicking through his photos on the digital screen, took the skull and placed it around his neck. The weight of it reminded him of his father’s compass, stowed away safe in his luggage.

“Jim.” Garrett beckoned to him. “Look at this.”

Jim sat down beside Garrett, the sea chill of their arms together, and looked at the reflection of Garrett’s frowning face on the blank screen. Garrett pressed the button, and the pictures began flashing up in tandem. The gargoyle, Jim in the water, Garrett and Jim taking a failed selfie, sandy fruit and an escaping crab, endless snaps of the driftwood path, and then, the skull.

Only it was obscured. In every single picture, it was enflamed in a strange mineral glow, blurring the edges and keeping it from sight.

Jim met Garrett’s creeping smile.

“Before you say it’s haunted,” Jim added quickly. “Can we just pretend it was a solar flare first?”

“A solar flare? It’s every picture, Jim. Nothing short of a miracle.”

“Maybe the skull is camera shy.” Jim held a palm protectively over it. He would have to tuck it into his shirt, to keep it hidden from Arrow’s prying eye. “Look, how about we head back? The sandy fruit was great, but I’d like some lunch. We can look at it on your laptop.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Garret swung his camera bag over his back. His hair was stuck to his neck, drying fast in the heat, and Jim self-consciously felt his own back, toying his fingers along to the bump of potential heat rash. “Thanks for this, Jim.”

Jim broke his staring match with the Gargoyle.

“Sorry, what?”

“Thanks for coming with me.” Garrett picked up the bags, the leftover food, the boards and punctured boat. Jim went over, taking the bags from Garrett, and somehow, he didn’t know what to say. “Richard wouldn’t. It was nice to just, you know, see some sea and sun.”

“You’re welcome,” Jim replied, feeling silly and weird, as if they weren’t just friends, out here, doing what friends do. It was uncharted territory, and right now, he didn’t want to breach it, even if it felt kind and warm and dizzy.

It soon dissolved into their relative ease as they both tried to chase each other from the path, slipping on their bare feet, good natured japes a choral between them. As they scaled the hill, Jim looked back, one last time, to see the old lady with the lantern eyes, watching them disappear off into the main road.

* * *

 

Benjamina Smollett was fanning herself on her private veranda, peach pink plumpness shown off in a polka dot bikini, truffles propped on a table beside her and a glass of champagne bubbling in her lily neck glass.

“Why hello there, Darlings,” She lowered her leopard skin sunglasses, a smile on her pert mouth. She was very pretty, a tidal of glamour next to her mild-mannered husband. “I wouldn’t go through the front door. Samuel is looking for assistance. I would take the back door and the stairs, if I were you.”

“Thanks, Benjamina,” piped Garret. “You look nice, by the way.”

Jim’s face was on fire. Silver had gone in explicit detail about his past with Benjamina, and well, had left little to the imagination. Or truth be told, what she wore left little and nothing to the imagination.

“Thank you, Miss Smollett,” he said quickly, ducking behind a snickering Garrett. She giggled to herself, took a sip of her champagne and opened _Vogue._

“She’s really funny, you know.” Garrett said as they climbed the back stairs (and what a climb it would be, considering how high their rooms were.) “When we were playing cards the other night, she told us all these stories about Arrow. Apparently, he hates spiders, and they were in Australia for a meet and greet, and there was this house spider in the hotel shower, about the size of a kitten? She said she’d never heard Arrow squeak before.”

“I’ll remember that,” Jim tittered. Amusing as the thought was, he hadn’t forgotten Arrow’s warning the previous night. He was unsure about how to think about that. He knew he wouldn’t tell Silver; neither man needed an excuse to deepen their loathing of the other. But Arrow had been sincere. Irritating, yes, oversharing and overconcerned about things that didn’t involve him, yes. But he had been sincere, the kind of sincerity usually reserved for Smollett.

“You know, I think that everyone thinks that Benjamina and Smollett are opposites, but they seem really happy.” Garret glanced sideways at Jim. “Do you think you’ll ever get married?”

“Me?” Jim shook his head. “I’m barely twenty, Garrett. I’ll need more time. You?”

“I dunno.” Garrett shrugged, breaking eye contact. “I just…”

“Jim?” Jerry’s voice hit them like a thunder crack. “Jim, are you down there mate?”

“Mr Calico?” Jim peered up between the banisters. Jerry’s leathery face stared back, eyes wide and stark with panic. “Is everything ok?”

“Jim, I…” Jerry had spotted Garrett. He cleared his throat; Jim thought instinctively of Arrow. “Look, uh – I need your help with something. It’s an emergency.”

“Sure.” Jim turned to Garrett, who blinked at him, confused. “Do you mind?”

“No, course not.” Garrett took the board off Jim. “This is my floor, anyway. I’ll fetch lunch for you after its done, okay?”

“Cheers, Garret,” Jim gave him a wave, blew a mock kiss (Garrett spluttered at that, clicking his tongue, embarrassed – they had done that as kids) and belted up the stairs.

* * *

 

“He won’t come out,” Jerry kept his voice down. They were moving through the corridors with the executive suites. “He won’t answer, no nothin'. I heard movin’ about and all that, and he keeps groanin’ as if he’s hurt, but I know on pain of death he won’t want me in there.”

“Has he eaten anything yet?”

“Nah.” Jerry scratched the tattoo on his neck, a blue anchor lined up with his jugular. “Won’t drink neither. Look…”

Jerry pressed the room key into his hand. Jim observed it curiously. Their rooms had electronic key cards.

“Don’t fear,” Jim replied gently. “I’ll go in, I’ll have a look, I’ll see if there are any problems, okay? He’s possibly in one of his moods.”

“Aye. Cheers, Jim. This isn’t like him you know.” Jerry said, staring out down the corridor with the polished oak doors and smart red carpet. “Between you and me, I don’t think he deserves you, Jimmy. Too young and pretty, if you be askin’ my personal opinion.”

“I didn’t.” Jim chuckled lightly. “Keep watch out here, okay? If there is a problem or something.”

“Gotcha.”

Jim placed the key the door, fighting the pressure of the lock, the action rising hair on his arms, and behind him, he left Jerry and the buttery summer sunshine.

 

* * *

 

The room carried the depressing dusk of shut out daylight. The suite was vast in comparison to Jim’s own room, with a lounge area and a luxurious bathroom. Jim placed his hotel key down on the table. The silk balcony curtains billowed in the summer breeze, made eerie by the blinds clapped shut on the doors.

“John?” Jim called. “John, are you there?”

No reply. The bedsheets were twisted in the duvet, the pillows half hung off the bed, a perfect testimony to a bad night’s sleep. As if it had been thrown a distance, lying by the dresser was Silver’s prosthetic.

Jim picked up the leg, feeling along the bulk of it for any damage.

A shadow shifted in the mirror.

“ _Jesus…!”_ Jim turned, dropping the limb.

Silver lurked in the shadow of the bathroom door, one hand gripped on the door frame, his hair loose and still in his white work shirt and trousers. His eyes were swollen from lack of sleep and from what Jim could see, tears, and his shirt was damp around his neck with sweat.

“John...?” Jim whispered, holding up his hands in truce, as if calming a wild animal. At that, there came wrenched from Silver a whimpering growl, a show of teeth, and he _moved._ “John, it’s _me_.”

Silver froze, just mere footsteps away, his body quaking from head to toe.

“John?” Seeing that it was safe to approach, Jim slid his hands up John’s shoulders. As if released from binds, Silver slumped. Jim kissed his cheek, stroking his hair curled wild around his fingers.

“Jim…” Silver’s lips quivered in the sanctuary of his collarbone. “Jim…”

“It’s alright.” Jim guided him to the bed and laid him down, sitting with Silver’s head on his lap. “Shhh, it’s alright.”

He had never heard Silver cry before, never the awful whines emitting from him now, painful and pathetic. Had he taken anything? His pupils were blown in his head, filling out the iris, the space beneath his eyes swollen, but that could have been from the uncharacteristic tears. There was no white substance on his fingers and face. Jim went to check the bathroom sink and mirror, but Silver cried out at that, nails digging painfully into Jim’s stomach.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jim soothed, flinching from the sting. Silver’s eyes mooned up at him, his body curled in on himself, like a child. Jim’s heart broke. “I’m not, I promise. I just…gonna get you some water, okay?”

Silver shook his head.

“You need to drink something,” Jim balanced his breath. “You haven’t eaten, and…maybe you need to see a doctor.”

Silver, his stare locked on Jim, shook his head again.

Jim understood. If Silver had been taking anything, it would reflect poorly on his status as an investor, and Arrow did not need a reason to smoke him out. But whatever was happening, legal or not, Silver was in a bad way.

“I’m going to get Jerry,” Jim said softly. “Okay? I’ll be right back.”

He went to rise. The hotel room turned upside down, and Jim was planted back onto the bed, the scent of Silver rising off the wrecked sheets, and Silver, above him, his face buried in Jim’s chest, growling that same whimper, repeatedly, hungry. Up close, he was pallid, his veins peppermint scrawls across his neck and face, and so huge and awful was the look in his eye Jim could barely contain his own cry at the sight of it.

“John…” He held up his hands, resting them light on Silver’s breast. “My god, what has _happened_?”

“No doctor,” Silver slurred. “No doctor.”

“Silver, this isn’t right, it isn’t…!”

Silver dropped his head, brushing his lips roughly against Jim’s chin, panting rapid down to his neck. He was so cold. His breath, his skin, like an inner ice was running through in place of blood. Jim laid his hands by his side and refused to touch him.

“Silver, you’re ill. You’re not in your right mind.” He hoped to some god he sounded sensible. His t-shirt was rolled up, above his belly. “Please, I need you to stop. You’re not thinking.”

Lips found the nicked skin from the night before. Silver’s mouth closed full over it, sucking hard. Jim yelped as the sensitivity of it, the sting and pull of skin. Silver broke away, exhaling roughly, taking in breath after breath, and then, as if a storm had passed, sunk onto a stunned Jim.

It might have been minutes, it might have been hours, the two of them rooted to the bed.

There was a knock at the door.

Silver rumbled discontent in the back of his throat.

“Sir?” Jerry’s voice, unsure. “You…better?”

“Never better, Mr Calico,” came the husky reply, Silver groaning as if waking from a nap. “I shall be out in a moment.” He lifted his head and smirked wearily at Jim. “You alright, Jim?”

Jim swallowed hard, his mood erratic in the fact of Silver’s ignorantly unsuspecting smile, his fingers twitching to slap the bastard.

“No.” He said, shortly. There was a speck of blood dried around Silver’s lips. Jim touched his neck and winced. “Can you explain yourself? Like what the hell was that?”

“Hmm.” Nonchalant, Silver lifted Jim’s hand, kissing the palm, the knuckles, before sucking the blood off his fingers. Jim’s lip was still trembling; he reigned it in, bravely counteracting his worry with anger, if such a thing was possible. “Jetlag, I think Jim. What did I do, exactly?”

“You were out of it,” Silver was still on top of him, pressing down his weight in anyway he could. But Jim was not in the mood. His spine was still in shock waves, his stomach griped from the sick of his worry.  Finally, Silver looked dutifully concerned, but there was also a rising awe on his face, a jaded kind of touched. Right. Jim was absolutely going to slap him. Nay punch the fucker. “You were slurring and fading about, the place is a mess, you manhandled me when I tried to leave…”

“Manhandled?” Silver’s tone changed as abruptly as his mood. “I didn’t hurt you, did I Jim? Didn’t do anything I shouldn’t?”

“No, it…” And Silver looked so contrite then, so soft and confused and pained at the prospect, and Jim bit his tongue about the nip – it was only a nip, for crying out loud – and he felt guilty, for it was Silver who was gaunt and out of sorts. Jim shook his head, and like a kid, the tears came. “No, it’s fine. You just scared me, I couldn’t _bear_ …I thought you were ill.”

Silver met his forehead to Jim’s, cradling his head in his hard-worked hands. Jim loved his hands, the burns and nicks and callouses of a life on the docks, not smooth and silky like Smollett or soaped and scrubbed clean like Arrow.

“Hale and hearty, Jim-Lad,” he murmured. “My god look at you. All golden from the sun, like a pirate’s treasure, stolen and all mine.”

Jim had not been stolen, nor he was a treasure, and they really had to work on the possessive pronouns. But Jim was weak in that moment. Having Silver lost and tearful (and yes, his eyes still glossed with the leftover moisture) and then given back to him, his usual smartass self with those damn hands, so Jim let his pride slip and instead moaned indulgent from the comment, and Silver’s face lit, loving and mischievous, all at once.

“I hope you’re done scaring the crap out of me though.” Jim saw Silver observing his bared stomach with a frown, and noted the scratch there, long and deep, clotting a tender line of blood. “And that you weren’t _on_ something. You would tell me if something was wrong, right?”

“Naturally, Jim-Lad,” Silver said, distracted. He touched the end of the cut with his nail, pressing in at the neck of the slit. Jim winced, twitching his hips. Silver, impervious to it, pushed down. _“Naturally,_ ” he added, in a whisper.

“John…” Jim placed his hand over Silver’s. “That stings. Also…tonight, there’s the conference dinner, you should get ready…”

“You smell of the sea, Jim-Lad.” Silver said, almost dreamily.

“Yeah. Me and Garrett, we went to the beach this morning. Early.”

“All salty like,” he discreetly kissed down Jim’s stomach, making every hair on Jim’s body rise. “Like _home_. Like that air, keenin’ so sweet off the docks. Hot baked iron anchors docked in the sun. Boards blisterin’ yer feet. Everything was so alive, in them summers…”

He was talking about his childhood, for his west country accent, usually kept slickly down in meetings and formal greets, was emerging at the memory, and the gruffness of it shivered down all the way to Jim’s spine.

“Salt.” Silver’s smirking gaze singed beneath his dark lashes, looking up at Jim, and he felt the pressure in his groin then, the beat of blood in his face. _“Iron.”_

His mouth descended on the wound. The hot damp on Jim’s belly was too much. Frustration, heat, gut worry. Jim bucked up, earning a snigger from Silver, who sucked harder, lowering his other hand to tease the inside of Jim’s thigh.

Jim did not know why this was doing it for him, why he was thrashing in the sheets with his fingers scrunched in Silver’s shirt, tugging the seams to shit, hissing at the pain and half weeping at the pleasure, even with the limited touch. It had been too long, too long since….!

Jim came, feeling the spoil against his jeans, heat so high and hard on his cheeks he felt he would blush out of his skin. Silver licked the wound dry, and rose up, a hand through his wild hair. He was flushed, breathing even, eyes hooded.

“I think we need to call housekeeping, Jim-Lad.”

“Do you…do you want me to…” Jim could hardly speak. Silver, satisfied at Jim’s slack jawed state, fished his crutch from the side of the bed, and hopped to the mirror. He grimaced at himself, even if his pallor was gone. In fact, he looked downright rosy.

“A shower is in order, thinks I,” He unbuttoned his work shirt, dropping it down to the floor. He began working on his belt. “If there be a dinner to attend, I suggest a shower for you too, Jim-Lad. Although you do taste _good_ that way.”

Taste. Not smell.

“Goddamn it, John,” Jim murmured. He was still sensitive, and the fact Silver wore his past on his body like a brand did little to hinder that. The working muscles of the docks, the powerful hands, that damn accent he cloaked whenever he was in polite company.  He struggled out of bed, fighting the sheets. “Are you…better?”

“Never better, Jim-Lad,” Silver said offhand. “Come now, Jim. Need to get you clean too, hm? Seein’ as you be here, you can give me an arm to the shower.”

“I take it they fitted it with the right facilities?” Jim approached Silver, only to let out a half shout as Silver tugged up at his t-shirt, pulling it over his head. The charm necklace went with it. Fingers brushed the scabbing cut and Jim gasped, lightly, and he knew Silver was smiling.

“Aye, that they did, Jim, but I prefer you.”

* * *

 

The shower lashed water, hot and steaming up the tiles of the enormous bathroom. The air was tight and dizzying. It was a wet room, so the shower ran free, and beneath the nozzle was a chair, where Silver sat, stretching out his single leg. Jim, now naked as he, raised an eyebrow as Silver shook out his hair, and gestured lazily to the shampoo.

“You’re incorrigible." He said as he squeezed the shampoo into his palm. But in a way, he was grateful for Silver’s back. Intimate as they might have been, Jim still felt discomfort at being bare around Silver. He trusted him, and Silver, so cagey about his own space, trusted him implicitly, and that was worth every drop of shyness. But Jim was still young and inexperienced, and Silver, so much a man in comparison, gave him the sense of being a sheep among wolves, an idea both enticing and unsettling. Here, Silver was faced away, content to sit and let Jim nurse his hair.

He massaged the shampoo into the scalp, softly twisting the hair into a frothy mess, as Silver purred and leant back like a contented cat. It was as if the scene from earlier had never occurred, for there was no swelling nor tears nor pale, tortured expression, just his John rumbling in pleasure as Jim soaped his back and face.

“Done.”

“A pity, Jim-Lad.”

Silver never took off his rings. Thick gold bands, heavy enough to kill a man with a swipe. Jim focused on them as Silver took his hand, kissing it, before turning his head up and dragging his teeth against Jim’s lips, splitting the soft tissue. Jim flinched. Silver paused, instead beckoning Jim round, to sit on his single knee.

That was a dangerous move. Jim knew that. He knew it had been months since they had been together, but he couldn’t stop, for Silver was kissing ( _biting_ ) his neck, sucking hard on the broad canvas of his body and the swell of arousal that had mysteriously piqued him earlier returned. Now, there was no hiding that, and a bemused Silver breathed against his ear.

“Pent up, are we Jim-Lad?”

He said it in such a way, as if he knew something Jim did not, smugly slipping his soaped fingers beneath Jim and pushing inside him, and oh god, it had been a while. Jim shivered, collapsing back onto Silver, hiding his face in his shoulder.

Beside the chair was the drawer with all manners of creams, gels and shampoos – another benefit of the executive suite, no doubt -and Jim heard Silver rifling through it, humming as he did so.

“Please, Silver.” Jim shook his head, digging his own nails in. “It’s been so long since – last we…”

“Your first time wasn’t it?” Silver unscrewed the lid, dipping his fingers in, all casual like, as if they were swapping stories over tea. “Hardly surprising. You were so vocal, Jim-Lad. Jerry thought I was killin’ you.”

“Jerry?!”

“Aye.”

“He h-heard?”

“ _Europe_ heard, Jim. Now…”

Cold gel entered him, stretching wide and searching. Jim’s eyes rolled, and he rocked back against Silver, earning an appreciative groan for his trouble.

“They might s-see,” Jim lolled out his words, half stupid by Silver’s ministrations. “They might see, and know, and…”

“Maybe I want them to see,” Silver whispered, his mouth caressing the curve of Jim’s lobe. “Maybe I want them to see the ache in your walk, that telling limp.” There was a chuckle, there. “Our little secret, each time you move…”

“Silver,” Jim panted, for Silver was adjusting himself, guiding Jim’s hips to sink down onto him. “John…”

“…and I’ll be the only one on God’s green earth who knows the reason.”

Except Jerry, Jim thought dimly, but it didn’t make the prospect any less erotic, especially the fact that they had a dinner meeting tonight of all nights and Arrow’s hawk eye would be on high alert, and Smollett, kind and wondering Smollett, asking so gentle and keen if Jim was alright, did he strain himself this morning, he must take more care, he must –

Jim’s thighs slapped against Silver’s lap, sending nerves curtailing and Jim’s back in a perfect arch. The water gushed on them both, the heat stinging the scratch on his stomach, and Jim, steered by Silver’s bruising hold, rode him obediently, rising and sinking, trying desperately to stop himself from slipping.

The pleasure was there, taking centre hold of Jim’s arousal and carrying him off, and it felt, too good, always too good. He clawed Silver’s shoulders, Silver’s forehead lain against Jim’s chest, crooning filth into his skin, as he become rougher, rough, too rough. Jim knew he was going to hurt, he could feel it coming, that shameful soreness, but he couldn’t stop now, not with Silver’s spare hand closing around him and jerking him to a loud finish, those awesome ocean eyes and wet devil smile driving him to the point of blackout.

Did Jim black out? He wasn’t sure. But the world was white and clean and hot, steam on his skin, his eyes fluttered shut, his body dead from the waist down. The water fell in long, transparent streaks, slowing the world, and he didn’t know how long the world remained in that unhurried state, pleasure pulsing through him, a sore undercurrent and stinging. He _stung_ , like new cuts in hot water does, all sharp and uneasy. Time must have passed, for Silver’s hand reached past him and pushed down the shower tap, turning the water to a dying trickle.

That was when Jim saw the red.

It ran in scum circles, whistling down the plug. It dripped from Jim’s leg, his stomach, riding down from a throbbing in his neck. Jim absently touched it, and swore, for his fingers were clotted with black blood.

“Fuck!” He went to jump, only for Silver’s arm to yank him close, hushing him under his breath, kissing away the bleeding bite, for it was a _bite._

“Jim, Jim,” Silver spoke quickly, sounding strange, feral like. “Forgive me lad, forgive me. It be only a touch of blood…”

“You broke the damn skin!” Jim hissed, feeling suddenly frightened and not knowing why. “You made me goddamn bleed, what the hell is…!”

“I got carried away, Jim-Lad,” Colour was dazzling on Silver’s cheeks. He no longer looked pale or clammy. Jim, on the other hand, saw the blood on his mouth, on his own hands, dripping glutinous onto his stomach. Silver was still inside him, the condensation in the air like a sauna. Lightness attacked his head and the world rolled.

“Jim.” Silver was serious now, all levity gone, holding him upright in his arms. “Breathe, Jim. Come now, breathe slow, that’s a good boy.”

“Not a boy,” Jim mumbled, trying to find himself, but found Silver instead, his head on him, feeling the guiding expansion of his chest. He breathed in, out, in. Silver stroked his hair, curling it around his fingers.

“Love you,” Jim added, half asleep on Silver. “You bastard, I love you.”

Silver, a glutton for affection, relaxed and hugged him tighter.

“Sorry, Jim.” He touched the bite, weeding out the last ghosts of blood. It was clotting now, and it would leave a nice scar, Jim reckoned, at least for a while. “I got carried away. Been too long, in the air and sea, as my Ma used to say.”

“Did she really say that?”

“Hm, yes. Far too long from my love, she would say, and look out at those grey docks, and imagine my Papa, comin’ back on his old boat. She spent her life lookin’ she did.”

Silver was a sentimental prick, Jim knew that, but he also knew this trick. Talk yearningly of home, distract from any bloody nips on his neck. But Jim was predictable. Silver could lie and tell the truth at the same time, a feat few men could manage, or even have the imagination to accomplish, and Jim, Jim couldn’t help it, he closed his eyes and forgave and listened to Silver’s story.

Silver sang under his breath comfortingly. His voice was harsh and throaty but also tempered by sweetness, by a life’s experience Jim never knew but loved him for, and Silver sang shanties, old sea love songs, sailing ditties.

_“I dreamed me love was drowned and dead, lowlands away…”_

“Stop it,” Jim said lightly. “You’re going to make me cry, singing like that.”

“Be such a siren, am I?” Silver kissed his brow. “Aye, tell me lad. When can I show you off on my arm, like the treasure you are, hm?”

“John…” Jim sighed. “Soon…when…”

He didn’t know when. He didn’t know when any of it would be a good time.

They were clean, finally. After they were dry, Jim fetched Silver’s crutch, and stealing a dressing gown from the cupboard, quietly opened the balcony windows. The rich sunlight and cheer of the day rode in, clearing away the steam and silence.

Silver dressed himself, silk shirt and light linen trousers, a gap in the neckline that exposed his furred chest. Arrow would hate it.

Jim looked at his discarded clothes, the salt and sand and spoil of himself on them, and gulped.

“Don’t have any fresh clothes lying around. Going to have to go to my room.”

“Don’t be foolish, Jim-Lad.” Silver tended to himself in the mirror, underlining his eyes with kohl. “I have some in the cupboard, fitted to your size.”

“What?”

Silver smirked at Jim in the mirror. Jim’s face burned as he turned away.

“You’re always prepared,” he said, emptying out the cupboard. The clothes were certainly not Arrow approved, but were formal enough to pass for a company dinner. The black shirt was cotton, not silk – thank God – but still hung low over the chest. Jim coughed and did up the ties. Typical Silver.

“Lookin’ good, Jim.” The fact he was wearing hand picked clothes did not pass Jim by, nor the crawl of lust in Silver’s roving eye. Jim buckled his belt. The trousers were tight. Goddammit.

Silver hopped to the bed, gritting his teeth with the effort, but Jim was there, knelt, carefully rolling the prosthetic sock up Silver’s stump, reaching for the false limb and clicking it into place. Silver cupped Jim’s cheek, rubbing his thumb on his lips.

“Love you too, Jim-Lad.”

Jim kissed him hard, hands on his knees, happiness swollen in his chest and oh, so damn painful it was too, to be this happy and anxious. Silver laughed in his mouth, trying to kiss back, and failing.

“Oh Jim,” he said fondly. “You make me feel younger, you do.”

He patted Jim’s hair, before idly toying with Jim’s bare lobe, and if on a thought, fiddled his own piercing with a hint of a smile.

“No,” Jim said.  “I’ll wear the tight trousers, but not that, no.”

“But lad, think of how fine it’ll be,” Silver uttered, more to himself then Jim. “That gold hidden in your corn hair, winkin’ at the sun.”

“Stop it,” Jim batted away his hand. “Don’t get poetic on me. Arrow will have a fit.”

“Doesn’t take much to throw Sammy Arrow, does it?” Silver was shadowed with loathing at the mention. “Smollett being a weak, warm sort, he wouldn’t care, would he Jim?”

Jim eyed him carefully.

“He’s not weak.” He said, firm.

“Of course, he not, Jim, of course!” Silver fanned out his hands, ruffling Jim’s hair. “Why, such a Samaritan he be, takin’ in a lad as clever as ye, but I believe you made it worth his time.”

“Don’t patronise me,” Jim ducked from his touch, playful but edged. Silver grinned and stood up, flicking on the kettle. “He’s a good man, a kind one.”

“Why I wonder, born to all that silk and lace,” Silver opened the front drawer, rifling through the contents, taking out a small sewing kit and a first aid box. Executive suite, again. “He could afford morals, he could.”

“And you can’t?”

Silver flashed his teeth, clucking his tongue.

“I be an easy man, Jim. Always found my fortune, even without the aides of silver spoons.”

He poured out the boiling water into a teacup and laid the sewing needle in it.

“You were brought up in the docks,” Jim was pretending not to notice the preparation. Silver cracked open the first aide box, reaching for a cold pack. “You were…poor?”

“Poorer then you, Jim-Lad.”

“You had your mother.”

“And no shoes until I was six. Didn’t go to school till I was seven.” The cold pack was cracked, releasing the chemical chill. “Had nothin’ fine until I was in my twenties. Had nothin’ finer until I had you, Jim.”

“Can you stop with that talk?” Jim sat at the edge of the bed. The sea glistened oh so pretty from the balcony, framed by the fat hanging citrus fruits. It looked like it could be a painting. The driftwood path was visible from within the foliage, poking white in the yellow and green. “I swear, you get sillier each time you open your mouth. Will you ever stop talking like a pirate?”

Silver threw back his head in a fruitful laugh.

“Blame the west country, Jim-Lad! It be in my blood.”

Blood.

Hm.

A freezing cold compress was shoved against Jim’s ear.

" _Ah!"_

“Don’t be such a baby, Jim-Lad.” Silver laid out the needle in his palm. “Let that numb it, and it’ll be done before you know it.”

“You’ve done this before?” Jim removed the compress, a cold starkness up his cheek and neck.

“Aye. Did my own at twelve. Botched it badly, my Ma berated me for it. Did my other piercings at sixteen. Did Jerry’s when we met. A blood pact, it be.”

Silver fondled his own hoop earring, tickled at the memory. He sat beside Jim, unhooking it from his ear, feeling the weight of it in his palm. He held it up for Jim to see.

“Have a look at that, Jim.”

Etched into the centre loop was a star, tiny, barely visible in the sunlight, if only for the diamond chip glittering at the heart of it. Scratched beneath it in littler letters was the word _Polaris._

Silver watched Jim’s expression judiciously. 

“My Papa told me about that star when I was a babe. Promised me he would take me round the world when I was a man, followin’ it.”

“Your father…”

“Aye.” Silver fetched the needle, holding it up to the light. “Wore that since I was a boy, Jim.”

Jim thought of his father’s compass, the star, the gold.

“You mustn’t…”

The needle jabbed in, quick and clean, followed by the hoop, clicking tight in place. Jim barely had time to flinch.

“There.” Silver nodded, proud. “You look like a man of the world, Jim.”

“You’re gonna make me one, if I like it or not,” Jim lightly felt it, the beginning of the swell. Silver sucked the blood off his finger, chuckling like a devil, and Jim, Jim sighed and smiled and swatted at him. “You’re a bastard, you’re a sentimental bastard.”

“He is a bastard, isn’t he?” Jerry’s lazy drawl broke into the room. Jim jumped, instinctively covering his ear. Jerry, eating a banana, smirked at Silver, who curled his lip back. “No offense fellas, but I’ve been waitin’ out there for ages.”

 

* * *

 

Dinner closed the hot day, a fitting end, for Jim was starving and exhausted, from the joy of Garrett and the worry of Silver. His ear glowed in the late afternoon, ruby each time he caught sight of himself, and it did look good, the gleam of it hidden within his sun-baked hair, set off by Silver’s choice of clothes, black open shirts and tight jeans. He sat at the dinner table, ear smarting, waiting for Garrett and Richard to arrive. Silver was biding his time. The earring was a risky move, and he knew that, and didn’t care.

Jim did.

“Hey, Jim!” Richard was early. If he was shocked to see Jim earlier then him, he made no comment, just stole a bread roll from the basket and plonked down beside him. The normalcy of it released a breath Jim didn’t know he was holding. “Lookin’ good Jim. I like it.”

“Like what?”

“The outfit! Bit severe for you, but hey, I think Garrett will like it more than me.”

Jim did not reply. He fiddled with his own roll, breaking it up into crumbs. He felt like elastic, held for too long and too tight, and even his hunger couldn’t break it. Richard snorted. Garrett had arrived, leaves stuck in his hair, the camera bag half off his shoulder, arms crowded with notebooks and bags.

“Look, it’s Columbus, back from the wars.”

“Am I late?” Garrett sat on the other side of Jim, fishing out his camera. “I got loads of pictures. Even one of the woman and her dog, although she hid when she saw me. Also, this place is so _old_. The town, the old town, is full of stories. You’d love it, Jim.”

“There’s an old town?” Jim tried to ply away at his distraction. Garrett’s face was full and smiling, quite wonderful, Jim thought, to have had an adventure of his own. Why did he feel troubled that he wasn’t there, with him? “Can we see it tomorrow? If there are old stories, I’d like to hear more about the driftwood path. You should come, Richard. Work off some calories.”

“Fuck you.” Richard chewed thoughtfully. “But it would be fun, you know. Some guy time. You two buggered off and left me this morning. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.”

“You keep eating like that, you won’t fit in the dress,” teased Garrett, who got a botched head slap for his trouble. Jim ducked between them, laughing, only for Richard’s rebound to knock his poorly ear. He hissed, cradling it.

Garrett and Richard blinked at him like owls.

“Is that…” Richard moved Jim’s hand, just a little, only for Jim to snap back and wave him away. “Is that a piercing, Mr Hawkins?”

“Where?” Garret rounded Jim, looking over Richard’s shoulder. “You got an earring? Let me see!”

Jim removed his hand. His two friends gawked at it.

“That’s really cool.” Richard fiddled with his own piercings. “Is that actual gold? Where did that come from, Jimbo?”

“Arrow is going to kill you,” Garret said, awe in his voice. “But it suits you. Was it Silver’s?”

Jim jumped like a whip crack.

“W-Why would you say that?”

“The last time I saw you, you were with Mr Calico,” Garrett continued innocently. “I saw Silver in the corridor on my way here. He told me some of the stories about the place. I noticed he was missing one of his earrings.”

“You notice the weirdest shit,” Richard turned back to Jim, but there was a shadow in his brow that wasn’t there before. “Well?”

“Jerry did it,” Jim had learned to lie. If Silver had taught him anything, it was that. It felt wrong, to lie to his friends, but he did it anyway, and that made it feel worse. “You know how Silver likes to wind up Arrow. It was just a spur of the moment thing, an early 20th birthday present.”

“Neat.” Garret looked at Jim, at his clothes, and smiled. “You know, you should get a matching one.”

“And steal my crown of pissing off Arrow? No thanks,” Richard countered, and as if beckoned from the gates of hell himself, the very namesake arrived, to find three well behaved young men discussing in polite terms the weather and what they wanted for dinner.

Benjamina was next to arrive, escorting infatuated shareholders, followed by a visibly relaxed Smollett. The conversation was light, sparkling. The table filled up, and it felt less of a conference dinner then old friends banked away on holiday. Benjamina was the sole reason for that, business savvy and people savvy, and Smollett beamed at her from over the table. Even Arrow looked, well, content. He hadn’t looked too hard at Jim, thank god. The lecture from the previous night echoed in Jim’s recollection.

As if summoned by the thought, Silver finally arrived, Jerry in tow. He looked like his old self, dressed in black, red tie and shoes, gold on his fingers and ears and neck, sunglasses blotting out the last fade of day. He sat opposite Jim, boldly beside Arrow, Jerry on his left side. Jerry, like Richard, helped himself generously to the bread basket.

Silver removed his glasses, placing them secret in his top pocket, and offered the three young men a paternal smile. Jim felt his heart skip. Arrow did not offer a greeting. He stared stubbornly past him to Smollett, and asked bitingly for a glass of wine.

Menus were handed out. Silver ordered confidently, much to Jim’s relief, and catching the eye of the boys, spoke animatedly to them about his years as a cook on the marina, and how he would serve the sweetmeats and fresh fruit buffet and how he was looking forward to trying their steak, to see if it measured up to his. Silver had many fingers in many pies, so to speak, and he had specific skill and specialities in catering, and by the way he spoke, weaving dishes out of thin air with his gesticulating hands, it was easy to see. An evening of typical John Silver; spinning yarns, making Richard, Garrett and Jim stifle their crying laughter in their sleeves, with Jerry occasionally clocking in with his own twist on events, and because of this, spirits were high. Only Arrow, his jaw drawn tight, dampened the mood but Jim was too gone to care.

Starters came. Jim was ravenous, trying hard not to rush his seafood, feeling faint from laughter and well, a little weak. He touched the space on his shoulder where the bite was healing, and wondered, wondered if he’d lost a little more blood then he thought. Silver was observing Jim’s hunger with a half smirk that tingled Jim’s neck oh so pleasantly. He ate his own leisurely, a pork pate that looked almost raw, pretending not to notice Jerry pinching off his plate. Arrow’s face became a thunderstorm.

Jim rarely drank, but Silver had discreetly ordered him a brandy, a warming drink at the best of times, and it ran straight to Jim’s head. From over the table, Silver looked younger. The lines circulating his eyes appeared ironed out, snugger on the skin. He was glowing in the moonlight, too striking. It was haunting instead of handsome, every feature too big and wild. Eyes, hair, mouth, all lidded with a power. Jim felt helpless, even with his friends around him, completely at Silver’s mercy, and oh _fuck –_

He had moved to reach for a fresh bread roll, before his body _twanged_. He was suddenly wrung with the most intimate of pains. Silver sipped his wine innocently, and began to play with his ear lobe, fussing the space of his missing earring. Jim crossed his legs, not looking forward to sitting for the duration of the evening.

The main came. Silver sat up suddenly. All disinterest with the starter was forgotten.

It was customary to have steak. They all had ordered it, except Smollett, who was a vegetarian and delicately making ways into his vegetable linguine. Jim had his well done. Garrett and Richard had medium raw. But Silver –

He must have had a prior agreement with the cook, because whatever was placed in front of him had not in any way touched heat. It swam in red, and when Silver oh so culturally cut into it, it pulsed blood from the meeting of the knife into the meat.

Jim felt sick. He looked about him. Nobody seemed to notice that Silver was eating raw beef, soaking the meat in blood before raising it to his wet, red mouth. Jerry met Jim’s eyes across the table, and every scratch and scrape on him panged in tandem.

“If I may be excused.” Jim laid his napkin on his untouched meal. Richard and Garrett turned to him, curious. Silver had paused, his serviette raised to his mouth, his eyebrows high.

“Are you well, Jim?” Smollett had a voice like a mother. It almost made him tearful, the kindness of it.

“I’m…not feeling very well. The heat.” Jim turned away. “If I may be excused, I need some air.”

“Of course, Jim,” Smollett said tenderly. “Whatever you need.”

Whatever he needed, it was not there. Jim walked slowly until he turned the corner, before he bolted, running outside to the open balcony, vomiting into the bushes. Panic curled the edges of his vision, making spots dance in his eyes, the world turning over and over and over…

“Jim?” Garrett. Garrett there, holding his hand to his back, circling the span of his spine. Richard was behind him, frowning. “Jim, are you okay?”

“He’s having a panic attack.” Richard’s voice sounded faraway, as if on a radio. The breeze scattered off the sea, cold on Jim’s aching face. “Sit him down. Get his head between his legs.”

Jim was being lowered, the anchor of Garrett on one side and Richard on another, and he lent against them both, breathing hard.

“C’mon, Jim.” Richard was beside him, pushing his hair from his eyes. “C’mon, breathe. It’s been a long day, a stressful one. You’re just over tired. Just breathe with me, everything is gonna be okay.”

Garrett said nothing, just squeezed his shoulder, and it was like they were boys again, locked away in their shared bedroom. Jim had only meant to be there a while, whilst his mother recovered. But she hadn’t recovered. She’d been sick, too sick, had died and left him there. The hospital had delayed in telling him. The hospital –

“C’mon, Jim.” Garrett whispered lightly in his ear. “You’re okay. We’re here.”

Jim sighed, wiped the unshed tears from his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” He muttered. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened.”

“Hey, these things happen.” Richard kept rubbing his back. “We all have these moments, right, Garrett?”

Jim’s stomach turned. He got to his feet quickly, hurling into the bush. He felt empty and weak and unbelievably tired.

“Jim?” Smollett was a shadow on his back. “Is he ill?”

“Yes he is, sir,” said Richard, keeping between them. “We’re gonna take him to his room. Keep an eye on him. Ask for some beds to be brought up. We won’t leave him.”

“No,” Garrett added, sounding stronger. “We won’t leave him.”

“Good.” Smollett approached Jim, touching his shoulder. “Get plenty of rest, promise?”

It wasn’t a hug, but it was a touch, a pull, a one-armed gesture around Jim’s shoulders. Almost like a father, and so raw and exhausted Jim was at that moment, it took everything he had not to cry at the action. He leant his head on Smollett’s shoulder, and Smollett softened, poignantly pleased.

Richard and Garrett helped Jim to the lift. The chrome walls, the patterned carpet, all brought Jim to earth and he sighed deeply, grateful for his friends.

“Hey, Jim,” Richard patted his head, all big brother. “Have they restocked your mini fridge by any chance? We are missing out on dinner.”

Jim smiled, feeble, as they came to his floor.

“You can have it all.”


	3. Promise, Not A Deal

Thunder flashed behind the windows, wind making the drawn curtains flurry like ghosts. Richard was lain on his side, his arm tucked beneath his head, watching Jim sprawled out on the main bed. Garrett was beside Richard on the spare pop up, snoring lightly, moving on his side and stealing all the blankets.

Richard couldn’t sleep. Not that he was surprised, he couldn’t sleep at the best of times, and in a strange room in a strange country with strange snoring people – well, that would be Garrett – he was awake in that unrelenting wide-eyed way, his body feeling prickly and tossed in the covers. He rubbed his hands over his face and groped for his phone.

2:00 blinked unrepentantly at him.

Shit.

Richard groaned, kicking back his covers, fishing his jeans off the floor and hopping one legged to the toilet, struggling to zip himself up. He made sure to shut the door before the brassy light could wake Garrett, or worse, Jim, who’d gotten off to sleep in that nervous roundabout way he used to as a kid, when something would be eating at him, but instead of telling you would be all mysterious but you’d _have_ to stay close until he did sleep.

Weren’t they past all that? But hey, it wasn’t Richard’s place to ask questions, and well, they were men now. Jim did as Jim does, even if he suddenly was wearing black tight trousers and sporting an earring like a tramp stamp.

 _Don’t be a dick,_ _Richard._

Washing his hands Richard peered in the mirror and tugged at one of his new piercings, which was swollen and nasty and giving him one hell of a jip. He only hoped Jim would have no trouble with his new hoop, although it was much better nick then his own shitty sanitised metal studs, being gold and all that, and boy, it did look impressive on Jim’s ear, and yeah, he _was_ jealous.

How had he got it though? Jerry might have been Silver’s bodyguard, but he didn’t have that kind of casual wealth to flaunt about. Nay, it was Silver who had something to do with it. Even as cool Silver was with each of them, Jim was his unquestioned favourite, and that had showed from the beginning, even before Jim was packed off to Spain to do part of his apprenticeship as Smollett’s representative, getting in touch with investors and genuinely being the young dogsbody.

They’d stayed in touch via Skype and phone calls, in a stifling office in Bristol with Arrow haunting their every move and rain packing down like piss. Garrett was a people person, trained in tourists, tours and research, and whilst Richard’s fashion sense turned Arrow blue, there was no-one as good as splitting numbers and figures and making things _fit._

God, he’d missed Jim. They’d never been apart, the three of them, and it had left a bloody hole in the group, and even as Jim had spoken on a pixel camera with sun and beach behind him, did he seem the same, out of his depth and missing home. When Silver had taken Jim under his wing like the father Jim had lost, well, the calls had become less frequent. Jim’s time was eaten up in those months, and Garrett had been so still and quiet during that time Richard wondered if he had been abducted by aliens, like in one of the crazy conspiracy theories he was always banging on about.

Johnny Silver liked pissing off Samuel Arrow (so did Richard, but he wasn’t so blatant about it.) That must have been what the piercing was about. Endear himself to Jimmy and get a shot at Arrow at the same time. A smart move, but Jim shouldn’t be that impressionable. The only person allowed to do that was Richard.

Would he lecture him about it? Be the big bad brother? He could hear Jim’s voice in his head already.

_Thanks, Richard. You’re such a paragon of virtue, I will happily listen to your apt and enlightened counsel._

_Cheeky bugger,_ Richard smiled in the mirror. Well, it wasn’t any of his business, so…

He poked his head out the door, looking over at the two sleeping men, and with a sigh, pulled on his old t-shirt and sandals and crept out the door.

Maybe there would something left at the buffet, even if it was a bag of crisps and coffee.

* * *

 

Richard was halfway down the main stairs when he heard the voices. They were in an awkward hush and it was coming, believe it or not, from the dining hall.

Richard grinded his teeth at his bad luck. If he was Garrett, he would have a look. If he was Jim, he would, well, he didn’t know what Jim would do nowadays. But there wasn’t much to go back to, to the dark room with the ghost curtains, and maybe it was some drunks or something, someone who wouldn’t look twice at an early twenty something creeping in to steal a can of beer.

He had a quick glance around the corner, just in case.

Smollett and Arrow, their heads close together, were sat in the dining room by the open balcony windows, conversing low and urgent, the rain storming behind them like a scene from a Gothic Novel. Smollett had his hand on Arrow’s arm, pacifying what seemed to be a beginning rant. Richard pulled back, sharp, biting his knuckles. They must have stayed up after dinner, after all the investors went back to bed, and by the looks of things, the intense conversation had sustained for most of the evening. Arrow had seemed grumpier then normal, but what was normal for Arrow’s grumps?

“There’s no proof,” Richard could just hear the high end of Smollett’s whisper. “You have no concrete basis for what you are saying.”

“Confound it, Abe!” Arrow was speaking with more emotion then Richard thought him capable of. “We have assets disappearing and reappearing, and although you do not put much trust in my judgement, I know he is behind it…”

“Please Sam, you know I trust you above all others, but what you are attempting to accuse is a highly serious matter. We must be sure we are rightfully informed before we can…”

Richard squeezed between the columns that formed the entrance to the dining room, barely a few metres from where the two men were sitting, and held himself just between them, his ears open.

“I don’t trust him, Abraham.” Arrow sounded fierce, but there was something else, something completely out of character. Desperation. “He’s working under the flesh of the company, hollowing us out like a weevil.”

“I appreciate John is at times, a testy character. And I am aware that you two…well…”

“If I never saw him again, it would only be too good for me.”

“But we have no solid evidence. We only have notions and hints and even then, if we have tried to chase them, we have come up with nothing lasting.” There was the sound of shuffling, as if Smollett had taken his hand. “As hard as you find it to accept, Silver had accomplished much as a partner and as an investor. We have expanded into international catering on cruise ships, gained Michelin star kudos…”

“Oh yes, he has all the right connections! No matter what obstacle we come across, he makes it go away with a click of his fingers, and I wonder how he manages to know all the tricks. What other connections does he have, I wonder…?”

“Samuel, please…”

“Near every investor and partner we introduce him to balks at the sight of him. And if they don’t, give them time. I don’t know how and why he does it, but god knows, they look at him like he’s a bad dream.”

“He is a charismatic man. Dominant, magnetic. Maybe that seems threatening. He has had to fight hard to get where he is, and…”

“Don’t be a child, Abe! You know as well as I do that that bleeding-heart nonsense about social climbing and life on a dirty dock is something he uses to gain sympathy and drain suspicion.”

“Samuel.” Smollett, for the first time, sounded close to angry. “He is a difficult man, not an evil one. I believe you are allowing your dislike to cloud your judgement, something upon I…”

“And may I be personal, Abraham?” Arrow cut across, a disrespect that spoke of their familiarity, and more than that, Smollett’s sudden silence. “He is a bad influence. On the boys, yes, but Richard is a true individual, and I say that with great generosity, mind you. Garrett is too wide eyed and wondered about the world to be truly taken in. But that is not Silver’s goal. I dislike, Abe, how much time and attention he is giving to young Jim.”

“What are you talking about?” Smollett queried, lightly. Sweat was dripping down Richard’s brow. “There is nothing wrong with Jim.”

“Are you certain?” Arrow had seen a weak point. “I disagreed with you, sending Jim to Spain, just eighteen. Oh yes, the boy is highly adaptable, but all things can be exploited with the wrong influence.”

“Jim and Silver do get on famously,” Smollett said carefully. “I wouldn’t have sent him if I thought he would be unhappy. I was grateful for Silver tending to his apprenticeship with such generosity. Jim came back, enthusiastic to continue in the company, and cited Silver as inspiration. Never did I think there was anything untoward…”

“Well, maybe not.” Arrow interrupted, again. “But if Silver is, as you delicately put it, a dominant and difficult man, surely it be wise to limit their interaction?”

“Jim is no longer fourteen, Samuel. He is an adult, I cannot lecture him on what he can and cannot do.”

“He was taken ill this evening. And did you not notice the hoop earring?”

“It was the heat, the excitement of the day, and the pressures on him are enormous, Arrow. We have asked much of him these few weeks, and he has delivered. Or are you saying he is not allowed to have limits? I would prefer him to relax and enjoy these months as time to spend with his friends. You’re only young once.”

Smollett hadn’t mentioned the earring. Richard felt – beside his gut dread – a rush of affection for the man.

“Yes, only young once, and never in this life are you this vulnerable again. I keep finding them together, tucked away in corners, and Silver keeps insisting – and I have seen you _agree,_ Abraham- that Jim be assigned to him for future projects.”

“He sees his potential, as does we all. Samuel, you are not just accusing Silver of company fraud, you are also putting upon his character a _molesting_ persona…”

Footsteps echoed. Richard’s pulse drummed in his ears as he skidded back, knocking his head against the pillar. Pain burst dazzling behind his eyes.

“Eavesdropping, Ricky?” Silver was there, still dressed in black silk and red tie, still smiling oh so smooth.

“No.” Richard spoke up, his voice too loud in the hall. The conversation in the dining room burnt away like a forest fire. “I was just…uh…couldn’t sleep.”

“No?” Silver scratched the end of his nose with a sharp nail. “Why was that?”

“I don’t sleep good.” Richard thrust his hands in his pockets, to keep them from shaking. “I was just walking.”

Silver smiled again, the dim light filling his crinkled eyes like a cat’s.

“You hungry, lad?”

“No.” Then he realised what he said, but it was too late now, for Silver’s eyebrows rose and Richard had the nasty notion that he was looking through him like glass. He’d never seen this side of him before, didn’t know it existed, but now Arrow had snarled it out, it was all he could see. “Well, I was, but I don’t want indigestion. I better get back to Jim, actually – we’re going out in the morning.”

“Oh?” Silver took a step forward. It was a small action, but heavy, and Richard found himself caged further back against the pillar. “Where to? Hopefully the weather will clear nice and easy for you boys.”

“Y-eah.” God, Silver looked big, filling out the entrance hall, even if his tone was perfectly friendly. In fact, his tone hadn’t changed at all. “To the town. Folklore stuff, you know. Garrett is crazy for that shit, and Jim likes it too, and you know me, I’m just along for the free food.”

“How is Jim?” Silver placed a large hand above Richard’s head, leaning in further. He was still smiling. Richard wished he would stop. “Is he better?”

“He was sick. Heatstroke.” Richard said quickly. “I should get to him. He – when he’s like that, he doesn’t sleep well. He uh – as a kid, we had to stay with him, Garrett and me, you know? Never talk about what’s wrong, will Jim, but you can tell when he’s uh – troubled.”

“What’s troublin’ the lad?” Silver continued, conversational, sweetly concerned. “He seemed so well earlier.”

“He doesn’t tell me,” Richard flattened his hair, avoiding his eyes. “He might tell Garrett. He’s better with…feelings.”

“Huh.” Silver’s chuckle carried along the hall and beyond. Richard thought of Smollett and Arrow, hidden away in the dining room. “Very well, laddie. Go back to bed, get some shut eye.”

“Great.” Richard tried a smile, scooting around him. Silver’s bemused gaze followed him.

“Richard?” Smollett’s clear, even voice froze him in his tracks. Silver looked up, unfazed. Arrow stood behind Smollett, face thunderous. “Are you alright?”

“I just came down for air.” Richard wiped his hands on the back of his jeans. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were up. I wanted a drink.”

“There is water in your room,” Arrow said stonily.

“No, there isn’t.” That wasn’t a lie. “Jim needed it. I wanted to pick up a few bottles from the vending machine, but I couldn’t find it, and I got a bit lost.”

“Oh. Well, that’s fine Richard,” Smollett patted his shoulder. “It’s just down the hall to the left. Mr Arrow and I shall retire to bed. Yourself, Mr Silver?”

“Aye.” Silver chuckled. “Don’t fret yourself, lad. Jetlag, keeps me eyes open. But I’ll get me rest. Your curvy fiancée must be missing ye, surely?”

Smollett looked at Silver steadily.

“Goodnight, gentlemen. Come, Samuel.”

“Goodnight, Mr Smollett.” Richard kept his head down as they passed. From Arrow there was a chill so potent he was surprised he didn’t transfigure into ice then and there. “Goodnight, sir.”

They turned the corner, their footsteps fading to the lift, and Richard exhaled, nervously flexing his fingers.

“Well…goodnight, Mr Silver,” He said casually, skidding on his heel to reach the sanctuary of the lift. A hand closed over his shoulder. He bit back a squeak.

“Easy there, lad.” Silver squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “I think we both know what you were doin’ right now, but I be quite happy to keep the secret.”

“I wasn’t doing anything.” Richard’s mouth was dry. “And…and?”

“And what, lad?” Silver released him, patting his shoulder like a shadow of Smollett. “I expect nothin’, not from a fellow friend in arms, oh no. Especially not one with your quick thinkin’. But…” He tapped his nose, eyes alight. “It’ll be our little secret.”

Richard's Adam's apple bobbed painfully.

“Goodnight, lad. Sleep tight.”

When he was out of sight, Richard bolted for the stairs.

 

* * *

 

Jim stirred. A breeze gently tended his face, the smell of surf and wildflowers a sweet perfume in the air. He yawned, stretched out his arms, and blinking, looked out across his bedroom.

Garrett and Richard were sound asleep on the spare bed, blankets kicked clean and legs tangled together. Garrett was drooling openly on Richard’s t-shirt. With a grin, Jim reached for Garrett’s discarded camera.

The ensuring clicks didn’t even make their eyelids flicker.

The storm had gentled the heat, imbuing the day with a soothing wind. Outside, it was beautiful, with the old town pleasantly knobbled on the hillside and the sea beneath it. All was quiet and still in the early morning and Jim, well, Jim was all too keen to leave the bed and go adventuring. He wanted to feel young. It was such a strange feeling, to feel that, as if he wasn’t young enough already.

He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the length and thickness of it, and stepped over his friends to open the balcony windows. His thumb absently brushed his sore ear, and the spike of pain made him wince.

Down below, near the pool, he saw Jerry hurrying along, his arm wrapped in a blanket. A strange red pattern was spreading along the white of it, or was that a stain?

“Jim.” Richard’s muffled voice made him near enough clap his head on the door. “Where’s that fucking camera, you traitor?”

 

* * *

 

Feeling free like feathers, the boys descended the hill to the town, creeping along the driftwood path, jostling each other all the way. The village was a cluster of old French charm, white flaked brick and sunflower roof tiles, sat high above the sea wall. Even Richard cheered up at seeing the early morning market set up along the coast, fishmongers and fresh fruit and carveries, bright stalls selling souvenirs and scarves and pirate skulls.

Garrett was gone before Richard or Jim could stop him.

“There we have it,” Richard grumbled. “Barely left the hotel and he’s shopping already.”

“Leave him alone,” smiled Jim. “He’s having fun.”

“Yeah…” Richard side eyed him. “Isn’t he?”

Jim barely had time to reply before Garrett miraculously reappeared, grabbing him by the collar and towing him along.

They skipped the souvenir stalls, although Garrett did insist on buying a pin that he proudly secured to his camera bag. Further along the market the boys gaped at the enormous fish hung from hooks, most prominently a swordfish twisted up and secured on display. There were lobsters and octopus, still clawing and writhing in their tanks. A fisherman shoved his burly arm into the tank, dragging out an enormous crustacean, offering it to a local woman who shook her head, speaking hard and fast in French that Jim could just translate to “too much money.”

Garrett stared at the lobster, the man and woman, an uncharacteristic tightness in his face.

Richard slipped a dead shrimp down Jim’s back. Jim jumped, swore, swivelled and cuffed his head as Richard ducked, howling.

Yes, he was _definitely_ among friends.

Soon, they moved from the coast to the village itself. It bustled pleasantly, scores of locals going about their business, and Jim could see why Smollett had picked it. The place had a raw, untouched quality, a secret charm that spoke of a community outside the beaten track. They were tourists, of course, but not many, and if Jim hadn’t been looking, he wouldn’t have seen them.

Garrett had been quiet for the duration of the walk. Richard took out a peach from his paper bag and began to eat it lazily.

“Guys!” Like a whip crack, Garret was gone (again.) “Guys, c’mon and have a look at this.”

At the end of the street, clamped between two buildings, was a crooked staircase that led down to a heavy wood panelled door. Above it was a scrawled sign; _Ville des Gargouilles._

“City of Gargoyles,” Garrett translated, taking out his camera. “I read about this place.”

“It looks like a dive,” Richard spat out his pips. “Looks like a sex shop or some shit.”

“It’s a museum!” Garrett thumped him with his bag. “And a shop. It’s about the folklore of the place. Jim, do you not recognise the fella above the sign?”

Above the sign was a tiny gargoyle, staring out at Jim with old eyes.

“Wait…” Jim went down the stairs, peering nearer. “That’s the same one outside my room.”

“Freaky,” Richard murmured. He shifted from side to side, scratching the back of his neck. “Do we have to, guys? If I end up getting cursed I don’t want to share eternal damnation with you lot.”

“Don’t be a wimp, Richard.” Jim pushed up the door. Rust flittered from the ceiling. Richard made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. Garrett’s eyes shone. “This actually looks kinda interesting.”

“Stoneware and witchy stories. Such treats and japes!” Richard waved his hands wildly. “But fine. You and Garrett peek, I’ll be…somewhere that is not here.”

“C’mon, Ricky!” Garrett exclaimed, grabbing Richard by the lapels. The nickname made Richard start. “You can have my dessert tonight, I promise.”

Richard glowered at him.

“Fine.” He hissed, marching down the steps. Jim chuckled as Garrett skipped down after him. “I’ll have you know, if there’s like a weird kind of test in there, like face your worst fear and become a real man or find my soul’s true self or what the fuck hippy shit, just let you pricks know my worst fear is Arrow gyrating to ABBA in a thong, and I hope you two suffer for it.”

The laughter followed and closed with the shutting of the door.

* * *

 

The ceilings were low and bare stone, resembling an abandoned chapel and the floors were ruggedly tiled. The air was impressed with a natural cool, a cold too harsh to be adequate reprieve from the heat outside. It was dark inside, and indeed, inside there was darkness, as plaster cast faces screamed from the walls, gargoyles perched on pedestals and shelves and some built into the very foundations, leering down at the boys with stone teeth snarls. In glass cases there were mummified hands and broken crucifixes and all manner of stolen pirate effects, such as bone necklaces and rotted metal rings with glass stones. Above them, arranged in rags and bindings, was a dried-out mummy, too high to reach but close enough to smell the dust, and the only light was from a single stain glass window, low in the ground, so only a patch of daylight managed to squeeze through into the shop.

Garrett’s hand was twisted into Jim’s shirt, the whites of his eyes wide in the half light, his smile glittering. Richard stood behind them both like a kid in a ghost house, his hand on Jim’s shoulder, his other wresting Garrett’s arm.

Garrett sped off, trailed by a whispering Richard, as Jim turned to face the exhibits. There were printed out information sheets in French and English, font uncomfortably small. Amongst the muddled items, a sheen of gold caught Jim’s attention. It was a dusty gold band, as opposed to rusted metal and silver, and upon it was a formation of stones, cloudy rubies and amethysts, small and pocked like barnacles. At it’s centre was a blue stone the colour of the Mediterranean.

There was no card next to it. Except, an empty price ticket.

“Do you want it?” A voice, raw and waspish. Jim drew back quickly. The owner was staring at him. He was a broad man, a scar cut down the right side of his grizzled face, scruffs of ash blonde hair stuck from under his fisherman’s hat, crisp cornflower blue eyes staring too long and too deep into Jim’s face.

“Is it for sale, sir?” Jim asked politely. The man had addressed him in English, it seemed wasted to attempt French.

“Yes.” The owner turned away. “For a fee, you can have it. Never liked it.”

“Is this a museum?”

“Sort of. More a gawking place, if you ask me. The locals insist on it being open, like a good luck charm.”

As he drew away, Jim saw sand flitter from his mud crusted boots.

“It’s worth more,” He continued, not an inch of accent in his voice. “But the locals believe it bad luck. You can have it for one fifty euros, no less.”

Jim opened his wallet.

“I only have one hundred,” he said. “But thank you anyway, for the offer…”

“That’ll do.” The notes were gone from his hand. The owner fished around in his pocket for the cabinet key, creaking it open. Beside the ring and enamelled animal skulls was a charm, a replica charm, a pirate skull with red bandana on knotted rope. Jim instinctively felt his bare neck and internally swore.

The ring was all but thrown at him. Jim wondered if it was a dud, a piece of gold plated novelty in glass and brass, but it was undeniably heavy in his hands, and he could see the hallmarks etched into the side of it.

“Why gargoyles?” Jim asked. “I would expect a museum like this outside Notre Dame, but…”

“It’s about the myth,” The older man cut in, sitting in an old oak chair beneath the mummy. Jim wondered how he managed that. “The story of the driftwood path.”

Behind Jim, voices were coming closer, an ecstatic Garrett hounded by Richard, before upon seeing the man, they stopped still as statues.

The owner chuckled.

“Heh. More an audience, hm?” He took off his hat. He was younger then he appeared, even with his sunspots and scar. “They say that the gargoyles built in stone protect the townspeople from an old threat that came from the sea during the age of piracy.”

“What kind of threat?” Garrett pressed, practically giddy. Jim hid a smile.

“No-one really knows,” The owner seemed lighter since the loss of the ring. He leant back on his chair, attempting a smile. “They are many versions. They said that strange men pulled ashore, and people began to go missing. Maybe it was murder or pillage, and the townsfolk threw at it a supernatural yarn, something easier to believe then the pure brutality of people.”

Richard shook, gnashing his teeth. Jim instinctively put his arm around his shoulders. Garrett, rapt, was silent.

“They said that gargoyles came from the sea in ships. Initially, they were normal men, offering wares and trades. But they ate strange and spoke strange and acted strange. Daylight made them lethargic, outright disgusting some of them. At night, people claimed to see shapes flying against the moon, and livestock went missing, and then the people went missing, and soon, there was hysteria. Gargoyles, demons, vampires – there were many names for what they were. The weather was full of thunder, the nights were full of fear and death. The gargoyles they carved out of stone, some even imported from the vaults of Notre Dame, kept the village safe, but there was no safe path through the forests or the docks or toward the mountains.”

“The driftwood path,” Garrett said, awed.

“Yep.” The man nodded. “Sailors, navy man, even pirates, frustrated at their grievance, crafted together a path made of ship wood, that they believed had been blessed by the gods of the sea, or God himself, or the local witch, or whatever voodoo, but it worked. Ships that provided sanctuary in times of turbulence now provided a protected path through the madness. Granted they never strayed from it, the townspeople now had a way out of their hell, and could now travel beneath full moons, safe.”

“What became of the monster men?” asked Garrett.

“Vanished,” the owner continued. “Never to be seen, too polluted by the gargoyles, the path, by the talismans the townspeople wore from their neck. Some say they went underground. Others, well, believe it’s all bullshit, a way to sell keychains.”

“That makes more sense,” muttered Richard, rubbing his arms. “Okay guys, are we done here?”

“Twitchy one, aren’t you?” The sailor sniggered, rising to his feet. “Strange groups of lads, I’ve never seen.”

He looked from each of them, one to the next, long on Garrett and longer on Jim.

Garrett spent another hour in the shop. Richard and Jim, grateful for the waiting sunshine, had smoothies in the café opposite. When Garrett finally emerged, pamphlets and shopping bags and camera out, did Jim hold up the ring and beam at him.

“Got something for you, Garrett.”

 

* * *

 

“Do you like it, Garrett?” Jim held the ring up to the light. “It’s culturally relevant, right?”

“Yeah. It’s butt fuck ugly.” Richard sucked his straw. “But he’ll love it even more if its cursed.”

Garrett looked thrilled at the very concept.

“Is it cursed?”

“Here we go again,” Richard muttered, before he suddenly froze, as if having seen a ghost. Confused, Jim followed his line of sight.

Silver was standing beneath the shade of a tourist shop, in discussion with a group of suited men. Even in his open shirt and linen, in the heat he looked uncomfortable, dark glasses on his frowning face, pallid beneath the bronze of his cheeks. He was very much in the centre of the conversation, his movements short and severe, his cigarette trailing smoke, and around him, the men deferred in nods and lowered glances. Hung from his belt was a large and elaborate flask.

Richard had gone stiff.

“Hey, that looks like business,” He said quickly. “Let’s scoot off before they give us something to do.”

But as if there was a secret sense in the air, Silver turned, for the men had fallen to a hush, for they had seen the boys, and upon seeing Jim, Silver took a long, satisfied drag of his cigarette.

“Jim-Lad!” Silver rose his hand in greeting. “Room for one more over here, hm?”

Jim grinned in response, crossing the cobbled path to greet him. In the corner of his eye, the old woman sat hunched, her dog between her legs.

“Morning, Mr Silver.” He said politely, aware of the staring eyes of Silver’s associates. He had not seen them among the shareholders the previous night. “How are you this morning?”

“After a night of burning the midnight oil?” He removed his sunglasses, running a hand through his ragged hair, and winked at Richard, who stared hard down the winding streets. “Why, quite fine, Mr Hawkins. However, a lad as bright as you, I need your assistance.”

“My assistance?”

“Why yes, Jim. It won’t be a moment, won’t keep you long, promise.”

Jim barely had a moment to protest before Silver’s arm was looped around his back, leading him from Richard and Garrett and the sun dappled street.

* * *

 

It was an open plan coffee house that faced the beach with a tiny kitchenette squared in the back, white wood tables and chairs out on the open verandas, small lemon patterned pots holding heather and honeysuckle beside the menus and salt and pepper. It was empty save for Silver and his associates, who took seats facing the sea, talk noisy and spirits high.

“Hey, Barbecue,” called out one of the men. Jim had heard Jerry cajole him, calling him “Pea.” His head was like a cannonball with bruised, blacked out eyes. “Gonna cook for us, eh? We’re starving.”

“Starving ye may be, Pea,” Silver spoke much more freely, all his vowels dropping nice and easy. To Jim’s surprise, he began rolling up his shirtsleeves. “But sadly for you, ye need to wait a bit longer, for this here oven is not going to pre-heat itself. Jim, give me a hand.”

The men cheered. Silver grinned, waved his hand in jest to silence them, and beckoned to Jim, who lightly vaulted over the bar to join him. Wolf whistles and calls of approval trailed him.

“John?” He asked, as Silver flitted tro and fro, pipping up the stove and getting out the frying pan. “What are we doing exactly?”

“Why, fixing a feast for the boys,” Silver threw oil and salt into the pan. Like clockwork, Jim fetched the fatty roll of pancetta and eggs, the dangling garlic and onion. Silver’s cheek creased with his smile as Jim pulled out the chopping board and began on the vegetables. “Why, I rented out this place, Jim. Can’t stand all that pomp and pretension, oh no.”

“Is this how you do business?”

“Ah, Jim. You give, people give back. That’s how you do business, lad, and I trust you remember that. Don’t cut through the root, you’ll give yourself eye itch.”

Jim sided the onion, smiling. Silver unhooked his flask and took a swig. He instantly brightened, lit a cigarette and, threw the lighter to Jim, who caught it in his open palms. A roar of approval shook the galley. Silver sang, banging his skillet on the kitchen top in time. His friends, all hard-worked men, all from Bristol docks, joined in the drinking songs, the sailing songs, the heave hos of comradeship, and Jim hummed along as he prepared the meat and vegetables and soon the café was teaming with delicious smells and old hymns.

Silver cooked, Jim served. The cold press of business seemed far away, as Jim was embroiled in the good cheer and hearty grub, laughing at Silver’s jests and having a good-natured bite back at any teasing questions, and that’s when he realised. They knew. They knew about him and Silver and they didn’t care.

Silver put his arm around Jim, messing his hair, before he tilted his head back and kissed him, freely, and it was welcome and true, and no-one even paused to gawp, and as Silver drew back, licking his lips, Jim could see the message clear in his face.

_This could be us._

“Is this the business you talked about?” Jim said. “Because this looks like you needed a kitchen skivvy.”

“Aye, Jim,” Silver stroked the back of his head, his thumb working into the nape. “I just wanted my ol’ shipmates to have a look at you, that be all.”

“Why?”

“To show them what they’re missing out on, of course,” Silver said slickly, kissing his forehead, and at that, Jim relaxed against him, dropping his chin on Silver’s generous chest. “But oh Jim. It is such a bad thing that I wish to show you off? And, pardon me soft heart, to see you well?”

Jim paused at that. In the sunshine, Silver looked normal, and at that, normally concerned.

“It was the heat.” He looked down. “And maybe…maybe the upset at seeing you…unwell, yesterday.”

Silver did not respond. Instead Jim felt the breadth of his lips hot against his skin and quaked with it. The other men were still eating and in the heights of conversation. 

“Although, Jim…” Silver breathed against Jim’s hair. “I do have a job for you, if you be so skilled as to do it.”

“And what might that be?” Jim attested, half asleep. Silver squeezed his leg empathically.

“That I do need a young chap with a gold tongue, to settle a deal for me.”

Jim blinked and looked up with him. Silver saw the look on his face and grinned, a little guilty.

“Oh Jim,” he continued softly. “By the look on your face, you would think I would be stealing from cradles.”

“You already are,” Jerry mumbled through his food. Silver, without taking his eyes off Jim, slammed his hand on the table, caught a fork and flung it. It struck the wood panel just centimetres from Jerry’s head. The table exploded again.

“John.” Jim said sagely, ignoring the red-faced Jerry and the men, bent double. “You know that my company protocol says I cannot partake in any deals without authorisation from Smollett and the company. I am still a trainee, it is policy that I remain strictly at their disposal.”

“Oh, Jim, so prettily worded!” Silver’s hands were all over him, a classic sign of Silver’s special brand of coercion. “But it be no strict policy, Jim! Think of it more as a friendly conversation, a suggestion, practice for your own companies and such.”

Jim raised an eyebrow.

“That’s just a roundabout way of saying “deal.” No, John. I can’t, don’t ask again.”

Silver nodded, sighed, and flung a dramatic hand over his eyes.

“Very well, Jim,” he said, disappointed. “If you must stick to your puritan policies, I will not be polluting your reputation.”

Jim poked at his dinner.

“I fully understand.” Silver continued. Oh great, here it came. “I must admire you, Jim-Lad. You are immovable in your morals. Me, I can appreciate that.”

Jerry choked. Pea pounded his back. The men stitched their smiles behind nodding frowns. Jim groaned.

“It’s correct, you know. Keeping your word to Smollett is more important…then, well, doing me a favour. As happy and fulfilled this favour would do me Jim, I appreciate…”

“Shut up.” Jim put down his fork. “Look, okay. Just…you just want me to talk to this person, right?”

Silver’s face lit, intact with crazy smile.

“Yes, naturally,” he confirmed, squeezing Jim’s leg a little higher. Jim squirmed, batting his hand away.

“Alright, just…” Jim’s cheeks burned. He knew this was idiotic, but he couldn’t refuse Silver, not with that stupid soft look on his face. It wouldn’t hurt. He wanted him to talk to a potential client. Fine. He’d done that for investors before. “Don’t…mention it to Smollett, alright? If this is a social call, as you _promised_ …”

“I swear, Jim.” Silver crossed his heart. “Ah, what a fair and bright lad you be! How on god’s green earth did I get this lucky, lads?”

There were jealous murmurs of agreement, and some lewd suggestions, all of which were silenced by the steady hook of Silver’s eye.

 

* * *

 

 “Who is it you want me to talk to?” Jim rinsed the plates, foaming the water with soup. Silver was sat by the open doors, rubbing his leg. He took another swig from his flask. They were alone.

 “A new friend of mine, Jim,” Silver rose. “Someone who needs a bit of persuasion, and maybe a prettier face to seal the deal.”

Jim looked at him, stern.

“Or…contemplate further actions,” Silver retuned, smirking as Jim sighed and turned back to the washing up. “Why, this means so much, Jim-Lad. The fellas liked you too. They saw that potential, same as I, as when I first clapped eyes on you in Spain.”

It had been Barcelona, a grid city with terracotta and royal blue, and in the middle of Jim’s hotel, he had seen the man with the striking face and lit cigarette, the man in black with sharkish pearl teeth.

“Was it really my mind?” Jim teased.

“Yes.” Silver slotted his arms around Jim’s waist. “Why, any fool has a pretty face, but what a physique of a mind, Jim. Smart as…”

“Paint,” Jim finished for him.

“Paint that never peels,” was the returned whisper, and with that, a hand cupped neatly around his crotch.

“John!” Jim stepped on his good foot. “Get away, will you? I need to do this.”

“Aye, no,” Silver’s voice husked. “Not when you look like this, no. Not when you are so open…”

“Silver…”

“…and kind to my suggestions….”

“Don’t get any ideas,” warned Jim, but he was weak, and sleepy from drink and food, and he whimpered as Silver massaged him with a confidence Jim never thought he would achieve.

“Oh, Jim. How may I be getting ideas, when your very body is tuned to the same idea?”

Jim flushed. Silver was all over him, bending him forward, cackling into his neck, hums of breath and whispers prickling from his nape to his shoulder. The hot soapy water steamed up onto Jim’s face like a sauna. The memory was too potent, but then again, so was the ache up his lower back, flared by walking beneath a hot sun. Silver’s hand tiptoed to his buckle, and Jim inwardly groaned. He was becoming masochistic, he was sure of it. At that, his flies were unzipped.

Jim squared his arms on the sink and pushed, defiantly, back against Silver, who purred at the action, accidental friction firing Jim’s brain to shit.

_Focus, for fuck’s sake._

“Goddamnit, now?” He refused to look back at Silver. That would be the kicker. It had been what, barely 12 hours since their last time? “In here? But…”

Silver crushed further into him, slithering his hand into Jim’s trousers. Jim dropped the plate into the sink, swearing. What was wrong with him lately? Fuck, what was wrong with Silver?

“There it be,” Silver whispered in his ear. “A few spare touches here and there, and Jim Lad’s brain turns to mush.”

Jim whimpered, humiliatingly, again.

Silver chuckled, kissing Jim’s neck. Jim felt the teeth before the lips and knew what was coming.

The bite hurt. His head was like cotton wool, as if Silver was directing his body, as if pleasure was enough to soothe the bite of it. But it still hurt. Jim whined, knotting his jaw, as Silver withdrew, sucking slow on the bruise.

“Whyyoualwaysbiting…” Jim slurred, wondering why his body felt so heavy. “Hurts…”

“You tired, Jim?” Silver wrapped his arms around Jim. As a seaman, even with his single leg, he was unbelievably strong. Jim shook his head, fighting off the haze. He palmed his neck. No blood this time.

“No.” He said, firmly. “I’m fine. Just…”

“Relax, Jim.” Silver replied fondly. “I won’t hurt you.”

Jim was moved from the dizzying heat of the sink, instead bent over the bar, his belt loose and the sound of Silver’s zipper being undone.

It was intense. It had been intense before, the first time, but there had only been a first time, and the second in the shower, both traumatising and tantalising (Silver, wild eyed. The blood and the heat and the _blood_.) And god, he was sore as Silver stretched and lubed him, but his body was expectant almost, his face and legs one long pulse of need, and Silver, Silver standing in the shade of an old store, looking stern and commanding and smoking, always bloody smoking…

The first bolt of pleasure was accompanied with a shearing pain. Jim shouted, curling his body inwards, both his hands gripped by Silver, gold rings on broad thumbs and forefingers.

“Easy, Jim.” Silver sounded so kind. He could, sometimes, in places like this, away from everybody. Jim felt the sting of tears beneath his lashes. “Easy. Breathe, relax, deep breaths.” And then he added, with a hint of regret; “My god, you’re still so young.”

Silver pressed down on him, sticky scent of sweat and cooking grease, and beyond that, his aftershave, the salt sweet smell of him, and then, beneath that, something _else_. Something old, decaying, rusted anchors in winter docks. Jim exhaled, resting his forehead on the bar. Silver’s thrusts were gentle, but shallow, and it wasn’t enough, to pull through the pleasure and the pain.

“Go harder,” Jim pleaded, muffled into his arm. “Go harder, _please.”_

Silver keened his hair, stroking back to the scalp. Jim’s heartbeat increased, his chest so full of longing he felt like he could die with it. How many times had he felt that, in Spain and England and here? In cars and planes and empty bedrooms? Jesus, he _was_ young, wasn’t he, to feel like that. Did Smollett feel that way about Benjamina? That heart sick empty that came with each separation, each secret refusal and goodbye?

“Easy now, Jim.” Silver kissed the space behind his ear. “We’ll get there, promise. I’ve prepared you all wet and loose, just breathe for me, and…”

He hit it again, spiking light behind Jim’s eyes, and that was the kicker. He cried out, curling his fingers back against Silver’s hands, and yes, it still hurt, but it was the bygone ache of yesterday now, not the fresh hot hell of immediate pain, for pleasure blotted it like a fly. Silver chuckled, and sped up, his customary roughness regained, revelling in Jim’s loudness, each thrust a shot to Jim’s vocal chords.

Jim gasped against the bar, Silver’s hand secured on his neck. He heard the scratch of match and flame, and the char of fresh tobacco.

“Are you…” He pushed himself up on his forearms, tingling all over, Silver too full inside him. He gnashed his teeth. “Are you smoking?”

“Why yes, Jim,” Silver replied breezily, puffs scattering warm on Jim’s back. He leant forward, enveloping Jim with his bulk, and brought the cigarette to Jim’s mouth, who flinched as it touched his lower lip. “Inhale.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the glow in Silver’s iris, the green too large and vivid, his smile broken out in teeth, predatory. Jim quaked as he filled his lungs with smoke, resisting the urge to splutter. Silver’s arms come around him, holding him steady.

“Hold it,” Silver commanded, quiet. Jim keened, the fire in his belly beyond gone, for Silver had slowed, wringing him out, teasing. Jim obeyed. “Exhale, slow.”

The smoke drained from him, mingling with Silver’s breath. Jim coughed, struggling to keep his legs up. Silver smirked, took another drag of his cigarette, and as if it was an afterthought, shoved Jim so hard and fast against the counter with his hips Jim felt as if he would faint, and like that, he continued, merciless, as Jim screamed his throat hoarse.

Jim twisted, trying to see Silver, trying to touch him. He touched him so rarely. He wondered if Silver liked to be touched, or whether he just liked to take. He wondered –

“Alright, Jim, it’s alright.” The cigarette was discarded, the warm and heavy embrace of Silver around Jim. Jim hadn’t noticed the wet on his own face. It was intense, too intense, so much so he was afraid of the climax, as his mind fired blanks and all he could feel was Silver, grinding up against him, and then, Silver’s finishing groan like a tearing tide and Jim, Jim just losing –

“Are you alright, Jim?” Silver was sweetly at his ear. Jim, his head in his arms, moaned useless in response. The world was returning to him in increments, the sunshine and the tide and the plates dirtying the sink water.

“No.” He rolled up his head. Silver was tickled like an imp. Jim meant to glare, he really meant to, but instead he smiled and groaned and covered his eyes. “Bastard.”

“Oh, _Jim_.” Silver hummed, delighted. He nuzzled his neck. “That was _delicious_.”

“Did we make a mess?” Jim asked weakly. Silver shook his head, arranging Jim in his arms, sitting down on the long booths.

“No, Jim-Lad.” He brushed away Jim’s messy fringe. “Except for what you’ve done.”

“I…I need a shower.” Jim’s eyelids were drooping. He could feel the mess of himself, and of Silver, but he was so tired, so content to rest against John, who kept petting his face, hair and neck, just caressing down his jaw, to the join of where his neck and chin met, and…

Silver dipped his head and bit him.

Jim woke with a start, panicked.

“Wow, Jim-Lad!” Silver jostled, blinking at the freaked young man in his arms. “Someone walk on your grave, hm?”

Jim sat up and looked at him. Silver stared quizzically back.

“I ache.” He lied. “Just…had a twinge, you know?”

“Hah!” Silver put on his dark glasses, lying back. “I would hope it would be more then a twinge, Jim-Lad. I wish ye no discomfort, but a man has an ego to uphold.”

“Yeah, no worries about that,” Jim said dryly. He hadn’t lied, not really. How he would walk home was a mystery, and he certainly couldn’t face Richard and Garrett in his current state. But he didn’t want to tell Silver about his dream. It was a passing fright, a daylight nightmare, a brain fever built by the fever heat in his body. He kissed Silver, gently, a quiet apology.

“Well, Jim?”

“What?”

“Am I…”

“Yes, you’re all man. For fuck’s sake, grow up.”

Silver chuckled and cupped the back of Jim’s neck, bringing him down for another kiss, one more invested in tongue and teeth.

“My Hawkins,” He breathed, between kisses. “My Jim. Light of me life, you are.”

“Don’t say that,” He was sure Silver had said that before, to many people. His body ached and his head hurt and his mind was drumming up all sorts of nightmares. He knew that this – whatever it was, even if it had survived their months apart – was not likely to last. He hadn’t thought of it long before, just tried to keep the euphoria of it high, the memory of it enough to sustain.

“I can hear you thinking, Jim-Lad,” Silver drawled. He brought his arms up, wrapping Jim to his chest. Jim shivered, went to bite back an excuse, before all fight left him and he dropped into Silver. “Oh, Jim. You think I’ll leave you, hm?”

Damn him.

“I didn’t say that,” Jim mumbled, still clinging onto him like a lifeline.

“I wouldn’t lie about that, Jim,” Silver’s finger caught his sore piercing. “Never. Not on me life, not on yours. Polaris be our promise.”

He had said that before, beneath the stars in Spain, when Jim was convinced it was a fling and nothing more. _Silver_ had convinced him, not the other way around.

“I don’t doubt you,” Jim declared. “I never did.”

“My Jim,” Silver hugged him tight, too tight. Jim gasped and crumpled into him, for Silver was pulling him in, so close. “Ah. Mine.”

Possessive pronouns. They really had to work on that, they really –

Silver bit him.

Jim stiffened. But there was no tear, just Silver’s lips, sucking sore and long on his neck, teeth grazing the skin and raising a shallow pooling of blood.

 _It’s not a bite,_ Jim firmly told himself. _It’s a kiss._

* * *

 

“Where is Jim, anyway?” Garrett, blissfully ignorant Garrett, chatted along as they followed the driftwood path home. “He keeps vanishing.”

“Silver called him over for a smooching,” Richard replied, sulky. (Yes, he was sulky. Hated to admit it, but pessimism was always at its heart, ruthlessly honest.) “Seriously, I feel hijacked by him half the time.”

“You do?” Garrett was still playing with the damn ring, twizzling in on his fingers, holding it up to the light when he thought Richard wasn’t looking. There was a lightness to his step, a sweet absentness in his face. It was highly irritating, Richard decided. “Jim hijacks..?”

“Not Jim, Silver.” Richard waved in exasperation. “I swear, each time he shows up, Jim has an excuse or is given an excuse to bugger off. Haven’t you noticed?”

“Maybe he wanted him for business,” Garrett fondled the stones on the ring. “You know Jim has more to do with him then us, right? Maybe it had something to do with the trip to Spain.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Richard flapped his t-shirt, bristling in the heat. “God, I want to get back and have a shower.”

Garrett had stopped playing with the ring. In fact, he had stopped altogether. Richard barely had to register before he realised Garret was giving him that look.

That Garrett look.

“No.” Richard crossed his arms. “It’s nothing, don’t be stupid.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to say anything with that oh so sensitive look!” barked Richard. He fumed, wondering why he felt so suddenly angry. Well, he wasn’t angry. He felt afraid, and by Garrett’s unchanging expression, he knew too. Since last night, Richard had felt out of sorts in his own skin, with the discussion he hadn’t meant to hear and Silver creeping up like a spider. Bad juju, the old foster bitch would have said. Going into the French equivalent of the creepy shop from _Gremlins_ hadn’t helped either. “Okay, I just don’t trust him, ok?”

“Why not?” Garrett placed the ring in his pocket. “Silver has been nothing but generous to Jim, and well, a good friend to us.”

“I don’t know,” Richard looked past the path. “I just have this feeling. Something weird happened last night. I went downstairs to get extra dinner, and I heard…”

“Hello, boys,” Mr Calico sprung up like a leathery daisy, ice cream in hand. Richard bit back his yelp. Even Garrett jumped. “Been out picking up the local ladies?”

“Picking up the local brand of crazy,” Richard deferred, rubbing his palms on the back of his jeans. “Garrett’s been dragging me and Jim into every tourist trap available.”

Garrett just smiled. Richard backed away, just standing behind his foster brother. He was taller, anyway.

“Hah!” Richard was sure that if Calico had been their age, he would have beaten them up and taken their dinner money. How could you like someone one day and one strange conversation later, be so full of paranoia? Was this just him being a dick? Speaking of paranoia, he wasn’t one hundred percent convinced he hadn’t been following them. “Well, gotta see the sights.”

“What’s happened to your wrist, Mr Calico?” Garrett asked, concerned. Richard blessed his social skills.

“Oh, that?” Calico tugged down his shirt sleeve. Along his tattooed arm there was a bandage from the forearm to the wrist. “Ah, got stupid fixing my hired bike. Caught it.”

“Looks like you did more then catch it,” Richard said without thinking. “By the looks of it, you’ve split open your vein.”

“I told ya,” Mr Calico smiled at Richard. It wasn’t pleasant. Richard bent his knees behind Garrett, pretending to tuck the tag into the back of his friend’s t-shirt. “I got pretty stupid, didn’t I? Now, Ricky…”

Fuck.

“…you wouldn’t be that stupid, would ya? Too bright, too cautious. Know when to keep your wits about you, correct? Wouldn’t randomly do or say something thoughtless, hm?”

Fuckity fuck.

Garrett turned his head slowly to look at Richard, who could feel the blood draining from his face, his neck, everything. He was certain his guts and blood were seeping through the drift wood, leaving him all bare and shiny bones. Garrett stepped a little to the side, concealing Richard from view.

“No.” He squeaked. He caught himself, cleared his throat. “No, I’m too uh – I wouldn’t take that risk.”

“Good to know!” Calico rubbed his hands together. “Well lads, where’s dinner? I’m starved.”

He took off down the path, whistling a sea shanty.

Garrett and Richard exchanged looks.

“I’m not saying hold my hand,” Richard whispered under his breath as they followed, slowly. “But stay close to me.”

Garrett took his hand.

Richard swore.

 

* * *

 

Jim flung the sponge into the basin, ripping off his shirt and trousers. Downstairs, he could hear the roar of Silver’s laughter. It had been going steady for the last five minutes.

“You arsehole!” He seethed as he rinsed himself. “You didn’t tell me the client was going to be here in _ten minutes!”_

“Tick tock, laddie,” came the singsong reply.

“Son of a…!” Jim scrubbed between his thighs, gritting his teeth at the discomfort. Five minutes and Silver’s promised client he had to make a de – a promise with would be here. Five minutes and Jim had been thoroughly fucked over and out. Did Silver get off on this? Well, the fuck, did he?

Of _course_ he did.

“Jim, lad?” Silver was stood by the door, teeth on show. He held out a fresh shirt. “Bit big, but one of mine. Nice and clean it be, too.”

Jim’s spoilt shirt was flung over his leering head.

“Cheers,” he deadpanned, buttoning it to the neck. It still sagged at the chest, Silver’s vanity for v necks notwithstanding. There were washed out spotted stains on the wrist, crusted brown. “And what am I to help you with exactly?”

Silver laughed as he slipped Jim’s shirt from his head, ruffling his curls back into place. Kohl eyes, black curls, open shirt. Goddamn show off.

“Why, Jim-Lad,” He said, good natured. “Just follow my lead. Talented lad like you, you’ll know what to do.”

“I hope so.” Jim’s whole body was shaking, swollen and bruised and taken apart, and his head was full of fireflies, agitated further by Silver pulling him in for another kiss.

“Mr Silver?” A nervous call broke the tension. “Are you here?”

“There he be,” whispered Silver, stroking his thumbs across Jim’s cheeks. Jim looked up at him, saucer eyed, biting his lip. Silver added, lowly; “You’ll do good Jim, yes? You’ll do good by me.”

Jim nodded, nervous. Silver smiled, genuinely, and kissed the crown of his head.

“Mr Hashem!” Silver descended the stairs, arms open. Mr Hashem was tall and unnaturally thin, dark circles under his eyes and the air of one who seldom slept. He was impossibly well dressed, and paled at the sight of Silver.

Lesson one, Jim thought, as told by him by Smollett. Gauge your client’s mood and urge to put them immediately at rest. Lesson one, according to Silver, gauge your client’s weakness and use to your advantage. Silver had said they were the same story, but different versions, one considerably prettier than the last.

“What a pleasure, I must say.” Silver patted his shoulders, pulling Hashem into a rough one-armed hug. Hashem spluttered. “I trust your journey was fair?”

Jim followed behind him, arms behind his back, and offered a considerably milder smile. Hashem sighted him and tensed up like a whip cord.

“Who’s this?” He had a tight, accented voice, blue bloodied down to his white shoes and cream suit. “One of your lackeys, Silver?”

“Oh no, Mr Hashem,” Silver shook his head. “This is one of my associates, a young gifted fellow by the name of Jim Hawkins. I trust you will be polite, Mr Hashem?”

Jim couldn’t see Silver’s face. Hashem rubbed his noise and coughed.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr Hashem,” Jim said, offering his hand. Hashem started, almost to retort, before he saw the calm look in Jim’s face, and accepted the handshake. “I am an assistant junior executive, part of Smollett’s shipping company and services. Mr Silver called me down today to bear witness to this discussion, and if possible, to offer counsel.”

Pretty words, indeed. Words that declared that there was no deal being made with Jim’s name on it, and as Smollett said, to put the customer at ease. Hashem looked between them, and sniffed, nodded, and much to Silver’s slow creeping smile, took a seat.

The discussion was a quick one, taut and tight, Silver’s wild charismatic promises held credibly in place by Jim’s smooth assurances. Hashem looked at Jim more then Silver, his questions concerning shares and investments.

“I trust you take Silver as a worthy investor and as a worthy investment?” He declared, midway through the conversation. It was an aggressive question. Silver clicked his tongue and took a deep drink from his flask.

Jim didn’t blink.

“John Silver is a successful businessman and investor, with expertise in catering and hospitality.” Jim said simply. “In five years of shareholding, he has managed to return our original investment tenfold, and has introduced Michelin star standard dining to our cruise ships.”

Silver cackled, his cigarette in hand.

“See that, Hashem?” He said. “Even one of your old flames, Smollett Shipping and co, they vouch for me.”

“You are an investor in Smollett and company, Mr Hashem?” Jim questioned, ever so polite.

“Aye, Jim.” Silver confirmed, taking another inhale. Fresh smoke and cologne. “One of their oldest, in fact. You carry a lot of weight on Smollett’s enterprises, don’t you Hashem? My, I say you piggyback on a lot of their profit. It would be calamitous to lose such an asset.”

“I apologise, sir,” Jim sat up taller. “I was unaware you were one of our oldest investors. You must have been established before my time.”

“Yes, I was.” Hashem neglected to look at Silver. “I…rely a lot on Abraham’s success and so forth.” He gestured, flippant. “Good show and all that, a most honest company.”

“Honest, yes,” Silver tapped his cigarette into the ashtray. “Honesty is very important to Smollett, isn’t that so, Jim?”

“Yes,” Jim said, beginning to feel uncomfortable. “Mr Smollett prides himself on his core values of integrity.”

Hashem stared at Silver, his lower lip tremulous.

 “So, if I was to invest in your enterprise, Silver…” He uttered slowly, as if not quite believing the words. “I would have return in investment and…trust? In you?”

“Watertight.” Silver blew smoke from the side of his mouth. “Absolutely. I believe Mr Hawkins here has provided enough evidence of that.”

“Fine.” He said weakly. “Fine. I…I trust you have the papers? For me to sign?”

“Of course, Mr Hashem!” Silver produced the folder. He was transformed, once again as jovial and generous as he was just a few hours prior. “How about a drink? To toast the future?”

Hashem drank double. Silver didn’t touch the champagne, instead draining his flask, his eyes shining at Jim.

 

* * *

 

“Jim-Lad, you’re a genius!” The sun was vanishing beneath the coast. The sky was violet fire, and with the loss of light, Silver’s exuberance grew. “My god, what a clever lad you are!”

Jim was in the process of being passionately kissed before he broke away, laughing into Silver’s lapels.

“You know we can be seen…!”

“Oh Jim, I don’t care who sees,” Against the sunset, Silver looked younger still, his hair loose from his ponytail and upon his face like a halo. So bright were his sleepy eyes, hypnotising in their happy green. “My god Jim, if only ye knew.”

He hadn’t seen Silver this overjoyed before, not because of him certainly, and Jim grinned even with the cold slick in his belly, the sticky light feeling of _wrong_. But Silver kissed him again, so warm and yearning, so Jim fought it down. Hashem was a difficult customer, that was all, and Silver, well, Silver was king of the hard sell.

“If I knew it took this to make you so happy,” Jim murmured against Silver’s lips. “Done it ages ago…”

“Jim…” Silver lovingly attacked his neck, pinning Jim against the wall. It took him a moment to realise Silver was casually shedding his belt.

“John, no,” Jim wound his fingers in Silver’s mane. He kissed his chin in compromise. “Not right now, I’m still recovering. And we are out in the open.”

“Later?” Silver growled, racking Jim up against the bricks. “If I can’t have you, lad…”

“Aren’t you supposed to be tired out by me, old man?” Jim teased, watching the sun vanish beneath the sea.

“Oh ho, lad,” Silver chuckled darkly, dampening Jim’s neck and chest with his tongue. Jim, too exhausted to respond, wasn’t dense enough not to shiver. “I’ll get you back for that, wait and see.”

* * *

 

Jim was snuck back to the hotel in the back of Silver’s car. The heat smouldered through the blacked-out windows, not pacified by the air con. The whole journey was suffocated by Silver buried in Jim’s neck, nibbling skin and petting tender places, until the hotel drew into sight like a white elephant beneath the draining sky. Jim stumbled out of the car, gasping for the fresh air, with Silver emerging, immaculate.

“Jim- Lad,” He said personably, now they were out near the hotel, the gauze of their façade falling back into place, although Silver’s pupils were still burst with mania. “Why don’t you skip the stuffy dinner and bring yer friends up for a munch?”

Could you cook in your executive suites? Jim wasn’t sure. But seeing as it was an executive suite, maybe Silver could do whatever he wanted. He nodded, unbearably hot, smoothing back his sweat slicked hair.

“Sure, sounds like a plan,” He said, breathless, desperate for a shower and a rest. “I-I’ll tell them. Say what time, exactly?”

“Why, eight will do nicely.” Silver cupped Jim’s cheek. From a distance, it could be almost paternal. Jim felt the move of his thumb and thought of John in the upper rooms over the galley, the arched eyebrows in shadow, the full mouth slinked up beneath the manicured beard, the crinkled skin around the clever watching eyes.

_You’ll do right by me, Jim._

“Yes.” Jim exhaled as the hand drew away. “Until then.”

 

* * *

 

“You’ll never guess what he did with the lobster,” Richard was trailing behind them on the stairs. Usually an advocate for Silver’s cooking, he’d looked the other way when Jim suggested it. Garrett, as always, was enthusiastic. “That bloody lobster Garrett bought at the market. Never guess.”

“What did you do, Garrett?” Jim quipped lightly, sighting the ring on Garrett’s hand and feeling a thrill at it.

“I bought it,” Garrett shrugged. “Had it sent to Smollett, who you know, will keep it in a tank for me until we get home.”

“What, you…?” Jim stopped, stalling Garrett. Richard sniggered and threw up his hands. “You adopted the lobster?”

“Yeah,” Garrett replied passionately. “Do you know how long they live? For what is only a bit of meat, it isn’t worth killing the creature for that. And he was _scared_.”

“The lobster was scared,” Richard confirmed, deadpan.

“Yes.” Garrett glared at him. “His pincers were twitching. I could see the fight in him. Jim, I couldn’t let them…”

“That’s fine, Garrett,” Jim swung his arms around Richard and Garrett, pulling them close for a hug. It felt good, to have them both at his side, like kids again. Richard wiggled and sighed. “I think it’s noble. It was the big one, right?”

“Yeah, I’m sure Gonzo the lobster really appreciates your humanity,” Richard ducked under Jim’s arm. “Now, all this talk of helpless wildlife is making me hungry. What room is Silver’s again?”

Room 1408 introduced Silver, basking in the early evening breeze, a smoking barbecue in front of him. He was finally out of his work clothes. Instead, dark linens and an open white shirt fluttered about his glowing skin, his hair flying free around his face, his burly tanned arms on full display. He flipped burgers, sausages, joking about with Jerry who sat in a deckchair beside a table groaning with fresh salads and sourdough bread. He had his arm proudly propped on an ice box full of beers.

“Good evening, boys,” He greeted, flipping a burger for good measure. He caught Jim’s eye and winked. “Who’s hungry?”

There was nothing better then John Silver in a good mood. He was charismatic to the point of impossibility. Even Richard seemed improved in his presence, sharing beers with Jerry and retelling the Lobster story like it was the crown jewel of comedy. Garrett sat beside Jim, overlooking the dark glittering sea, the air pungent with seaweed and the tossed smells of a hot seabed, and with their heads together, they spoke about the Gargoyle museum, the strange scarred man and the old woman with the moonshine eyes.

Silver was silent behind them, frying away, but it carried the quiet of open ears.

The heat was still huge, still drowsy and full of the promise of a storm, and so by midnight, sleepy and full, Richard yawned and poked Garrett.

“C’mon, Joan of Arc,” He got up and stretched. “I know we’re young and wild, but I can’t be wild in this heat with this much food inside me. I say we sleep.”

“You have no stamina,” said Garrett, but even he looked weary. “But okay, if you insist.”

“You boys sleep well now,” Silver smiled as he closed the grill. He unhooked his flask from his belt, and without a blink clicked his fingers at Jerry, who took it with a sagely nod and vanished from the balcony.

“Thank you, Mr Silver,” Garrett said, offering his hand.

“No problem, Garrett.” Silver took his hand heartily. “I’ve told you, call me…”

There was the sound of popping, of crackling, like the spit of bacon in a pan. Silver hissed and yanked his hand away.

“John?” Jim couldn’t stop himself. The informality made Richard’s neck snap up, but he didn’t care. Silver had his hand curled into his body, a chuckle forced through his teeth. Boldly, Jim took his hand. Silver stared down at him, unreadable.

In the centre of his palm was a red welt, the skin bubbled about it, like a scald or burn.

“You burnt yourself.” Jim looked up at Silver. “How did you do that?”

Silver, for a moment, looked lost. Then, he laughed. It was a slow unscrambling of sound, bitter and high, before he shook his head and pulled his hand free from Jim.

“Be nothin’ but the barbecue,” He said softly. “Must have speared meself and not seen.”

“Sorry, Mr Silver,” Garrett said meaningfully. “I didn’t mean to catch it.”

“It’s alright, lad,” Silver replied smoothly. “My own damn fault for not bein’ careful enough. Must be my old age.”

“Jim?” Richard had risen fully, his hand on his back. “You coming to bed?”

“Soon.” Jim turned away. Silver smirked lightly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

 


	4. If Something Was Wrong

“You would tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?” Silver was on his back, a lit cigarette between his forefingers, clouds arching and licking at the air. Jim unfixed the leg, lying it gently beside the bed. He sighed, repeating the question. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

Silver blew a circle toward the ceiling.

 “I…” Jim rubbed Silver’s stump, massaging oil into the skin. Silver grunted with the pressure. “I just have a sense of something, that’s all.”

Silence.

“You’re a seasoned cook.” Jim got to his feet. “Your hands are full of burns and scars. I’ve seen you burnt before. You don’t blink.”

Silver took a ponderous inhale and blew it smoothly towards him. Jim stared at him, expressionless.

“Fine.” He slung his bag over his shoulder. “Goodnight, John.”

Silver pushed himself up on his elbows, pattering the ashes over the bedspread.

“Stay.”

Jim had his hand on the knob.

“I…” He looked back at Silver. “You know I can’t, if anyone comes to my room…”

“Stay.” Silver unbuttoned his shirt slowly, dropping it off his shoulders. Worn down scars, faded by age, wove like lacework across his wide shoulders, leading to his dark, hirsute chest. Beneath the business man, there was the dockworker, the sailor, the teenage boy grubbing by in fish and chip shops and the seven year old collecting cockles on tidal beaches for pennies. Silver removed his belt in a lash of leather. _“Stay.”_

Jim dropped his bag.

 

* * *

 

It was late. Early, late. Jim did not know. He was body heavy, heat drowsy, anchors in his limbs. He was aware, mildly, of the thin sheet curled around him, the body heat of John tucked against his back.

“If there was to be a wrong, Jim…” Words, half dreamed, echoed in his ears. “What would ye do?”

“Hmm…” Jim stirred, fisting the sheet into himself. His heartbeat was tangible. He could feel it in his legs, his stomach, banging away in his arms and temples. “I would…stay.”

“You would, would ye?” Marked with disbelief, the words were, and bitter. Fingers soothed the hair from his neck.

“Yes…” Jim rolled on his side, the blankets trailing with him. The world was muggy, misted with sleep, with the sweat dank drop in his body. “Love you…”

It was whistled through his teeth, the final words, until he fell away into sleep.

 

* * *

 

Samuel Arrow thought he would sweat out his own skeleton.

He’d attempted paperwork for an hour, but the ink stained his hands, a scruffiness he could not tolerate, and even with the windows wide open, there was no wind. It had been a handsome day but had totalled into an unbearable night.

Frustrated, finally, he left his desk and paper, and pleading for rain, took to walking down the cool tiled paths of the leisure centre. They complained about English weather, but at least nights were clean and suitably cold, even in their brisk summers. This was just impolite.

The moon was full overhead, stars pricking out on the expanse of sky, and Samuel Arrow, no poet was he, would think it beautiful if not for the insufferable heat. But here it was cooler at least, with the pool sitting still and twinkling in the moonlight. He moved toward it, carrying his novel under his arm.

But he was not alone.

One of the stretched down deckchairs were occupied. From it protruded a glass of wine held daintily aloft. Arrow bore his teeth, cursing his foul luck.

“Sammy.” Silver lifted his sunglasses. Mad, to wear them in the middle of the night. His lip twisted into a parody of a welcome. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“You won’t have it.” Arrow stood tall, even in the blue cotton of his pyjamas. Silver’s gaze flickered, bemused. Arrow flared his nostrils. “I will leave you to whatever _this_ is.”

He swung on his heel, only for a low titter to stall his tracks.

“Come now, Samuel,” Silver said, sounding almost sympathetic. “Can we not be friends?”

“It is unwise to mix business and…” It was hardly pleasure. “…unprofessionalism. I am not a dishonest man, Silver. I do not hide my poison behind sycophantisms.”

“That’s a big word, Sam.” Silver rode his finger around the rim of his glass. “I be merely a humble Bristol lad.”

“Don’t play the fool, Silver. You are anything but.”

“Ye flatter me.”

“It is not flattery!” He roared. Silver primed an eyebrow. Arrow cursed and glanced at the upper windows. “It is a statement, a fact. You use that guise to trick people, but I tell you Silver, I will not be tricked.”

“Of course not, Samuel.” Silver said, cordial. “That I believe. Albeit it a dropped comment here and there, I would say your honesty was quite petty. A little man, struggling to get his voice heard. Not very attractive, Sam.”

“I will not respond to your childishness.”

“Childish, am I?” Silver rose, exclaiming with the effort. Arrow glanced at his false limb, the ugly chrome of it, and wrinkled his nose as Silver lit a cigarette. “I be not the one throwing around empty accusations.”

“What accusations are these?” Arrow looked him straight in the eye. “Only the guilty bring up gossip, Silver.”

“Is that what it be?” Silver clipped his lighter shut. “Gossip? And what gossip would you know, Mr Arrow?”

“It is not gossip if it is backed by facts.”

“So you are accusing me.”

“I am doing nothing of the sort.” Arrow refused to look away. “I am troubled as to how you have acquired such information, Silver.”

“The same way any glum idiot finds information,” Silver gusted a disgusting tobacco cloud in Arrow’s direction. “By listening to the screams of a scorched cat who can’t stop itself running back into the fire.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I…” Silver took a step forward. He was a bigger man then Arrow, and as of now, dangerously close. “…heard you, Sammy.”

“What you heard…” Arrow hissed, nose to nose with the bastard. “…is my prerogative. And yes, Smollett may be right, that we have no proof, but I swear to god, I will find some.”

“Good luck.” Silver chuckled. It could have been the dark, the reflection of the moon, but the glint of his teeth seemed impossibly sharp. “You can certainly try, Sammy.”

“Arrow!” he barked. “You address me as Mr Arrow, Mr Silver.”

“Many happy returns, Mr Arrow,” Silver put out his cigarette on Arrow’s novel. “Good evening.”

Silver flung his towel over his bare shoulders. He was disgusting, Arrow thought. Revolting, primal, smirking snake of a man. How could he hold up his loathsome self amongst respectable men?

“Stay away from Mr Hawkins.” It broke the air between them. Silver was suddenly completely still. “You are a bad influence. I will not have the boy lead astray.”

“Astray?” Silver turned around, slowly. Something stirred beneath his skin, rippling muscle like a wave. “What evidence can you produce for such a statement, Mr Arrow?”

“You are a bad influence on all the boys.” Arrow held his ground. Something had turned, gone bad. “It is merely a clarification of your responsibilities as a role model. Nothing more.”

“Are you certain?” Silver’s nails picked the seam on Arrow’s shirt. He ran his tongue across his teeth. “How would you have me behave? I look toward your counsel, Sam.”

“I expect…” Arrow squared his shoulders. “…you to behave like an adult. Like a man of means, not as a friend. As an associate.”

“Oh I see.” Silver leant in close, far too close. “Wouldn’t want to get in the way of what you be wanting for yeself, hm?”

The slap stung the air. Blood cracked from Silver’s cheek and dribbled into his mouth.

“That’s a warning,” spat Arrow. “Your intimidation, your filth, it has no effect on me.”

From his pocket, Silver withdrew his lighter and another cigarette. The harsh flare illuminated his face in a sunset burn. He clicked down the lighter, took a deep trembling breath, and blew it out into Arrow’s face.

 

* * *

 

 Golden sunlight warmed the room, hazy heat dry on his lips, a heavy arm slung over his chest.

“John?” Jim murmured, sleepy. He cuddled closer, going to kiss him, only to pull back. There was a strange taste on his lips, metallic and ripe. Silver battered his eyes, waking just enough to stare up at Jim.

“Ah, Jim…” He whispered, under his breath. “Had a hell of a night, lad. Come back to sleep with me, yes?”

Jim lay back down again, obediently tucked into Silver’s body. He dozed for another hour, until the heat crept stronger through the blinds and he finally left Silver deep in sleep. As he ran the shower, he pondered how it was like in Spain. With no eyes there to judge, they slept together and woke together. Jim had gotten used to it. Now, the nostalgia made his heart hurt. More then that, the dawning realisation that this secret wasn’t or couldn’t last much longer.

The hot gush of the shower was a relief. In the long mirror, he caught sight of himself. He was covered in bruises, skin risen in bites and sucks, patterning his body from his thighs to his chest and most insistently across his neck and shoulders. Most disturbingly, the skin had been nicked or scratched, or along the thinner patches of skin, lightly broken.

Now aware of them, his body protested, sore and aching and it hurt to move his neck.

_Damn._

What had they got up to last night?

The angriest welt was the one he received in that fateful shower, now standing proud and red.

“Fuck,” He muttered. “I’ve gotta wear turtlenecks in Southern France.”

The shower was quick, and as quiet as he could manage it. He was more then happy to spare Silver coming in, save more nips disguised as morning kisses.

“Oh Jim-Lad!” He mimicked as he brushed his teeth, spitting into the sink. “It be only a touch of ye olde passion! Yeah I bet, you bastard.”

He crept the door open, and then found he didn’t have to.  Silver was sat up in bed, morning paper beside him, coffee and fruit set up on a decorative tray on the bed. He was taking a leisurely drink from his flask.

“Well, well.” He licked the edge of the paper and turned the page. “Morning, Jim-Lad. And if you’re going to impersonate me in the future, drops yer vowels a little more.”

“Fuck you.” Jim wrapped the towel further around himself. Silver lazily took in the sight of his bites and bruises, hiding his smirk behind the newspaper. “Who brought this in?”

“Hah.” Silver chuckled, pinching a segment of peach. “It be nought but Jerry. Don’t worry lad, no peeking chambermaids, ye be quite safe.”

“Uh- huh.” Jim moved away from the window, dropping his towel. “And how about this? Do you think this helps? Look at it!”

Silver’s dastardly eyes peeked over the front page.

“Gladly, lad,” He said, folding the newspaper and putting it aside. Jim flushed from his tips of his toes to the ends of his ears.

“Don’t be…” Jim fished the towel off the floor. Silver threw his head back in a belly laugh. “Stop. Just how did I get these, exactly?”

“Get what?”

“These!” He gestured helplessly to his neck. Silver stuck out his lip in a thinking pout.

“Have to come closer, lad. Look at the damage meself.”

Jim just looked at him.

“It’s too early for this.”

“For what?”

“Agh.” It was a trap, as Richard would have acutely said. But if Silver was going to play innocent, then so was Jim. “Fine.”

He approached, careful, half revealing his marked hipbone with a push of the towel. Silver stroked his beard, reaching forward to tease his fingers across the skin, as if to inspect the damage. Then, he lunged, and Jim darted back just in time, shaking his head and hiding his smile.

“Oh ho, Jim,” Silver rumbled in the back of his throat. Lately, all he did was bounce gravel on his vocal chords. No matter, Jim’s body still lit at the sound. He shook his head, trying to snap himself out of it. Too early, yes. “Ye shouldn’t tease an old tiger.”

“You’re in your forties.” Jim secured the towel just for effect. “You’re not an old tiger. But I think middle aged tiger doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, hm?”

“Careful, lad.” Silver said lightly, and looking at him, Jim suddenly had the impression that maybe he _should_ be careful. Silver was no slouch physically, but there was something odd to him now, a sprung quality. He leant back, and as per nature, lit his morning cigarette. He played it between his fingers, watching Jim almost darkly. “Maybe just a tiger, then. And…” He blew smoke _just_ for effect. “…I can see you trembling.”

“You only rasp because you smoke,” Jim said too quickly. “And I’m trembling because it was hot in the shower and it’s cool in here by comparison, okay? Quit it with the bedroom eyes, I have got to get ready.”

“Do I have bedroom eyes, Jim-Lad?”

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” Jim searched the room. His clothes were gone. Surprise, surprise.

“Why the rush?” The sheets rustled. Jim swallowed. Cold water, cold water. “Stay a while, Jim. I miss you more than ye know.”

Jim stood up. He inhaled the smoke, took a deep gulp of it.

“You’re smoking Camel brand cigarettes.” Jim turned back to him. “You’re upset.”

Silver said nothing. In the hard daylight, Jim could see his face was swollen, the skin below his left eye scabbed.

“John?” Jim crossed the room in a heartbeat, sitting on the bed. “John, what’s happened?” He touched his face, gently feeling the swelling with his thumb. “What _bastard_ …”

“Ssshhh, Jim.” Silver placed his fingers on Jim’s tremulous lips. “It be nothing, lad.”

A drop of blood eased on Jim’s thumb. He pulled back, looking at Silver, who watched sedately. Jim licked his thumb absently, and from Silver there came such a rolling of hunger and lust Jim barely had time to be confused before Silver suddenly advanced.

Jim pulled back.

Silver stopped, as if he’d found himself. He looked at his hands, at Jim, and then out toward the window.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me, lad,” He held his flask in his hands. “I don’t know what be up or what be down, now.”

“John…” Jim swept his hands up Silver’s shoulders, cupping his face and bringing him into his body, feeling the scratch of Silver’s beard on his neck, and he rocked him, as if he wasn’t a hard-faced business man, a charismatic cook, a quick-fire manipulator with a dangling cigarette. Just John. Just John, who held him as if he was the most fragile thing alive.

“What’s happened?” Jim combed out his hair with his fingers. Silver was still attached to him, lips resting on his jugular, breathing evenly. “Can you tell me?”

A hot mouth closed over his mending bite and broke the skin.

“AH!” Jim shuddered, a drive of agony quick and fresh in his blood but something else. Something hot, burning. Jim’s hips jerked with the intensity of it. Silver sensed it too, for he sucked harder, claws digging into Jim’s chest and thigh.

He was shoved.

John struck his head on the headboard, cursing at the impact. Jim saw his lips were plumped and red.

There was blood on the pillow and sheets. Jim swayed toward the bathroom, kicking the door open, and there, in the mirror, he saw the bite marks. The skin was purpled and angry, but the marks were neat, definite, two little pegged holes of perfection.

From the bed he heard shuffling, the tell-tale _click_ of Silver’s prosthetic, the distinctive and careful amble of Silver approaching the door.

“Stay the fuck away!” Jim didn’t know he could sound like that. He was half erect, bleeding, in _pain._ He was also afraid. His bones shook inside his skin and all he wanted was to go home and hide in his room like a child. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

The door creaked open. Silver said nothing, just stood in the doorway, the sheets around his waist and the blood falling from his mouth like raindrops. Queasiness ran down Jim’s body like cold water and the world began to rock. He gagged, dry heaving into the sink.

Silver removed the towel from the rack, and without a word, pushed it hard against Jim’s weeping wound.

“Got to hold it down, lad,” He said robotically. “Else it’ll get everywhere.”

He licked the blood off his fingers as he said it. Jim struggled to stand upright at the sight.

“I need a doctor.” He said weakly.

“No, you don’t.” Was the reply.

Jim went faint.

Silver bundled Jim up in his arms. The room swarm, rocking from place to place, until pillows rested against his head and Silver, hissing at the sunlight and drawing the blinds. The comparative darkness was mystifying in comparison, and if Jim had been younger, he could have sworn there were snakes wiggling in the shadow corners.

He turned away as Silver propped him up, oh so caring.

"Need to eat now, lad. Keep up your strength. No more girly faintin', I trust."

All manners of breakfast items were pushed into Jim's hands. Jim narrowed his eyes. Silver brightly changed the subject.

“It was Sammy Arrow.”

“What?” Jim chewed through a pastry, glare stuck hard on Silver.

“He did this.” John gestured to his face. “Caught me with the back of his hand, like a woman.”

Jim swallowed the mouthful.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yes.” Silver nodded for effect, evidently grateful for the distraction. “He was accusing of me of all sorts, Jim. Quite hurtful, in fact.”

“Did you deserve it?”

“Hm?”

“The slap.”

Silver clicked his tongue.

“No.”

“Hardly surprising you would think that,” Jim said spitefully. “If not for the open bites on my body, I would almost feel sorry for you.”

“You don’t feel sorry for me?” Silver was coating his vowels in syrup, lying down beside Jim, all innocent like, lighting another dirty cigarette. “Are you saying you do not love me now?”

Fuck the slap, Jim could punch him.

“Can we just discuss what the fuck this is?” Jim jabbed at his throat. “This wasn’t just a love bite, Silver, you _ruptured_ my skin. Now you’re acting like a slap on the wrist will work.”

“Jim, Jim!” Silver rolled up, taking another drag of his cigarette. “I got carried away, lad. I’m sorry if I hurt you. Won’t happen again, cross me heart.”

“There was blood everywhere.”

“Aye, Jim. A little blood looks a lot.”

“I fainted.”

“Always were a delicate sort.” Silver said dismissively, sitting in front of Jim with a bizarre smile. “Why, too fine for the likes of me, hm?”

Jim just glared.

As if in response. Silver hissed in pain, touching the side of his swollen face, but Jim was already moving, picking up a salve and a cold pack from the first aid box left on the side.

“I hate you sometimes,” He said, pressing the cold pack gently to Silver’s face, who leant into it, practically purring. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten. And you go too far too many times for it to be an accident. Be wary of that, John.”

“Of course, of course,” Silver closed his eyes as Jim patched his cut eyebrow with a plaster. “Hm, yes. Anything…”

He was bending Jim backwards, kissing along his jaw, biting playfully at his earlobe. He held his lips over the bite and Jim tensed, clasping warningly at Silver’s shoulders.

There was a pulse, a crack, a shimmer of something between Silver’s breath on the spoilt skin and Jim bit back a sound.

“Hm.” Silver propped himself over a blushing Jim and peered down. _“Interesting.”_

“Completely unrelated.” Jim tried to struggle himself up. “I haven’t…you know, morning and all that…”

Silver’s palm pushed him back into the sheets.

“Not so fast.”

Experimentally, Silver returned his mouth to Jim’s neck. He breathed slightly over the bite, and lightly ran his tongue around the broken skin.

Jim bucked.

“Don’t bite.” Jim gasped against Silver’s collarbone. “You said you wouldn’t. I can’t take another.”

“Another, Jim?” Silver kissed it instead. “Another? How about later, I wonder, hm?”

His tone had altered, honied and teasing to dark and absorbed. Jim felt he was on a rollercoaster.

“It hurts.” Jim hid in Silver’s neck. “It feels…”

“Tell me how it feels,” Silver’s inflection resonated in Jim’s bones.

“It feels…oh!” Jim tried to grind against Silver, who kept him sadistically in place. “It feels…fuck, it feels….!”

“Yes?”

“Good!” Silver sucked on the bite, so light, a hint of pressure. There was minimal pain, but the sensory overload went straight to Jim’s groin. He was bare from the shower. There was no place to shield himself. “It feels…oh, oh _Christ_ …good…”

Silver wasn’t touching him. Jim arched his hips, tried to slip his own hand between them, but Silver secured his hands over his head and continued to suck and lick and tease until Jim thought he would go mad.

A part of himself didn’t want to come from this. It was a stupid thought, a fleeting one, but if he did finish from this weird thing – what was this, a kink? A twisted perversion? A magic potion? – it would validate Silver’s weird new habit.

But Silver _was_ keeping his promise. He wasn’t biting.

Jim came suddenly, the shadow echo of his previous thought swept away by bodily glow, and he lay there, beneath Silver, panting and shivering and sighing as he finished.

“Good lad.” Silver released Jim’s hands, smiling down into Jim’s blissed face. “Such a match for me, you are.”

“Hm?” Jim fluttered his lashes. “What – what was that?”

“I don’t know.” Silver looked pleased. Too pleased. Smug. Validated. “Maybe a little pent up, hm?”

* * *

 

Are you sure you want to do that?" Garrett's dutifully sensible question was belied by the mania in his eyes. "Go through all the company's protocols?"  
  
"I've already scanned the company files." Richard sat at the end of the bed, picking at his teeth. "Nothing. Not a hint of any foul play, and the passwords to private files are watertight. But assets are being fucked with. I can see Arrow's point, but the data has been massaged so well and so cleanly you can't scope it." 

"Be careful not to chew that toothpick," Garrett said, good natured. "I can tell you're wound up." He paused, playing with the ring. Again. "You know, it's weird. I was up reading last night, the folklore books I got from..."  
  
"The Gremlin Shop," Richard uttered drily, chewing the toothpick for good measure.  
  
"Yes, the Gremlin shop." Garrett held up the book. Displayed were illustrations of talismans, in forms of necklaces and rings, skulls and moonshine stones. Richard looked, bored. And then, he looked again. Garrett held up his hand. "My ring matches the designs almost exactly. I think Jim might have bought me a bit of history. But listen to this; the rings were used as warders of evil and could burn or maim any malevolent creature that dared touch it."  
  
Richard looked at him.  
  
Garrett smiled back.  
  
"It was a bloody burn from the barbecue." He closed his laptop in disgust. "Goddamn it, you and your imagination."  
  
"Oh, okay," Garrett crossed his arms. "Maybe this whole spiel about corruption in the company is a figment of your overactive imagination, hm? Honestly Richard, you trust nobody and nothing."  
  
"Even you said that walk back from the town was weird," Richard shot back. "And have you not noticed, we haven't seen Jim at all today? He wasn't in his room. But then again..." Richard turned back to the computer. "...you would never _not_ notice Jim, would you?"  
  
Garrett was silent.  
  
Richard sucked his teeth and sighed.  
  
"Okay, I'm sorry. That was unnecessary." He clicked his fingers on the laptop lid. "But I am frustrated. There has never been a data issue that I cannot crack."  
  
Garrett sniffed.  
  
"Maybe..." He said. "Maybe you're right. Maybe there isn't a data field you can't crack. Because you've cracked this one. Because what you're looking for isn't here."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Think about it," Garrett reasoned. "If, and I say this as an if, is Silver is corrupt and abusing the company or whatever, he wouldn't have been stupid enough to lock it somewhere in the mainframe. It would be data on another computer. Or maybe on paper or something, or a hidden USB. Or indecipherable code!"  
  
"This isn't a damn hacker film," grumbled Richard, but a verve shot off in his brain. He retrieved the hotel key card from his pocket, turning it over in his hands. "But...now you mention it. Silver never has any of his hardware to hand. I saw nothing in his room. But maybe..."  
  
"Jerry!" Garrett clicked his fingers. "I saw him carrying Silver's bags when he arrived. The suitcases he put in Silver's room, but the laptop bags..."  
  
"It would make sense. I mean, it's out there." Richard bit his thumb. "It's worth a try. Got no other leads."  
  
"What?" Garrett perked up. "You serious?"  
  
"As the grave." Richard flicked the key-card. "This should be easy enough to recode. I've got a scanner somewhere, in all my stuff."  
  
"Are you...?" Garrett flipped his book shut, finally interested. “Are you going to copy the key card? Well, how?”  
  
"Maybe the business mainframe is closed to me, but..." Richard smirked as he waved the key card in Garrett's face. "But the hotel mainframe? Bloody baby steps, if you ask me."

 

* * *

 

Silver was in a glorious mood. It was little different as if he had just discovered a breakthrough in business. Between all the coaxing and kisses, a worn-down Jim finally ended up on Silver’s chest, lazily being fed grapes and squares of sweet nectarine and he felt lazy and sleepy and pacified. He thought of his hot-headed panic before but couldn’t draw back the energy to gauge the reason.

“Mr Silver, sir?” Jerry had his own key, skulking in from the rapturous sunshine of the hallway. Jerry was in his customary shorts, but he was wearing a long-sleeved polo shirt, which in this weather, Jim thought, must be a killer. Peeked from each sleeve was the beginning of bandages. Jim went to sit up, concerned, but Silver kept him down, kept him close. “Is everything…do you have everything ye need, John?”

Silver smirked and gestured to Jim, who wasn’t sleepy enough to not hide his face in the sheets.

But Jerry’s returning leer faded. He wasn’t looking at Silver, but at Jim, and most notably, at the large bruised bite on his neck.

Jerry looked toward Silver suddenly, who fixed him such a look Jerry picked the breakfast plates sharpish, clearing his throat.

“I’m fine, Jerry.”

Jerry nodded, stacking plates and drinks. As he drew the blinds, he looked towards the bed and swore.

“Fuck, John! What the hell happened to your face?”

“Darlin’ Mr Arrow,” Silver drawled, stroking Jim’s hair, wrinkling his nose at the sunlight. “Don’t worry, Jerry. I be no sort to hold a grudge.”

Jim sat up, fighting away Silver’s arm, the sheets pooling around his waist. He wasn’t so sure, and now that the dark was gone, and the glow had faded, Jim found himself returning to his senses, and to the troubling notion that Arrow had struck Silver, a feat so out of character Satan could be skating his way to work.

“Why did he hit you, John?” He asked. Silver scoffed, took out a fresh cigarette, and gestured to Jerry to light it, who obeyed accordingly, before lighting his own, mist and tobacco cosying the air. Jim was certain he was going to suffer premature death by second hand smoking.

“Well, he did provoke me.” Silver settled back down on the pillows. “I overheard a nasty little ditty a few nights back, and well, Arrow was accusing me of foul things, Jim. I be a businessman, but I be honest, and to have anyone bring doubt on my honour, well…”

“I cannot imagine Arrow being violent,” Jim said. “He’s too straight laced.”

“Is that so?” Silver took another drag. “One must be careful of trusting first appearances, lad. They can be deceitful.”

Jim arranged the blankets, protecting his modesty. Jerry kept glancing at the patchwork of bites across his skin, and the severity of his attention was making Jim sweat.

“What did you say?”

“Hm?”

“What did you say to provoke him back?”

A shadow dominated Silver’s brow, and he chuckled, smoking rising from the sides of his wide smiling mouth.

“Oh, Jim-lad.” He tapped his nose. “That’ll be tellin’.”

“So you did insult him.”

“Hah! The man has no sense of humour, he don’t.”

Jim thought, and spoke, ironically, without thinking.

“Was it about me?”

Jerry dropped the breakfast plate.

Silver paused his cigarette a millimetre from his lips. He half smiled, but his eyes were steely, steady on the young man.

Jim looked down. Jerry reached for the newspaper, flipping it over for the crossword.

“What makes you say that?” Silver asked, soft.

“No reason.”

“Oh, Jim.” Silver smirked through his cigarette, a hint of danger in his voice. “You know I hate being lied to.”

Jim narrowed his eyes.

“Could this be my own personal business? You keep your own business to yourself, you tell me as much.”

“If it involves me, then it be my business. Involves the both of us, it be our business.” He blew a smoke cartwheel toward Jim. “And I thought we were both involved in this relationship, yes?”

“Don’t talk like that.” Jim could hear his own heartbeat, the thunder of it in his body. He said something he shouldn’t, and by the look on Silver’s face, he wasn’t going to drop it. “Fine. He said that you were a dangerous influence and that I was to keep my distance. That was all.”

Silver smoked in silence, the ring of Jim’s word a discomforting echo, before he hummed and put out his cigarette.

“I says,” He said, his accent thick. “That Sammy Arrow should mind his own fucking business.”

Jim groaned.

“John…”

“No.” Silver shook his head. “No, no. He keeps his tongue lashings to ‘imself, but to undermine my authority, _well_ …”

“He has complained about you before. Why is this any different?”

“Badmouthing me to Smollett is one thing.” Silver unscrewed his flask and took a starving drink from it. “But to sell me out to my new prospects?”

Jim wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

“John, what can you do? It was more a…” Jim sighed. “… _paternal_ warning. Not a business one. He said a personal relationship was a bad idea.”

“And why would he say that, I wonder?”

“He sees me as up and coming, I think,” Jim said, embarrassed. “He gets protective, I suppose it means he cares in his own way.”

“Up and coming, hm?” A slither of red had dribbled from his flask, staining the end of his lips. “And does he know I have ye up and coming every night?”

Jerry sniggered behind the paper. Jim threw a nectarine at him.

“Fine. If you’re going to have one of your moods…”

“I’m not having a mood, Jim.” Silver rolled onto his front, gripping the tail end of Jim’s sheet. Jim pulled it higher around his waist, protesting. “I be merely hurt, Jim. Do you not care for my feelings?”

“You’re tough enough to handle it.”

“Oh, I see.” Silver released the sheet. Jim stumbled back, saving his modesty just in time. “I wasn’t aware I had to be tough around you, Jim. And after I had a little treat planned for us today.”

Jim hopped to the cupboard, retrieving a dressing gown. He wanted to ignore Silver. That would be wiser as opposed to indulging Silver’s manipulative stupidity. But a treat –

“You know you don’t have to be tough around me,” Jim said coolly. “But you don’t have to be immature.”

“Oh, me heart!” Silver rolled on his back, clutching his chest. “The drama! Little Hawkins believes me to be immature, Jerry! Whatever shall we do?”

“Shut up.” Jim blushed. He approached the bed, tying up his dressing gown. “You know that I… _woah_!”

The ties were snatched up. Jim was yanked on top of Silver, a straddle on his warm wide body. The ties were routinely undone, Silver squeezing Jim’s hips until he gasped.

“Do you want to me to go?” Jerry added gruffly, behind his paper.

“Yes.” Silver said, satisfied as Jim dropped beside him, once again in a naked daze. “Get the yacht ready. I trust the reservation went through.”

“Slick as a who – uh, yeah.”

“Lovely, Jerry. Dismissed.”

“A yacht?” Jim murmured, overwhelmed. Jerry clicked the door shut. “Did you say…”

“I said a little treat, did I not?” Silver played with Jim’s neck. “Seen you so rarely, lad. Just a bit of time to ourselves, hm? Out on the brine.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Jim could feel the humming of breath in Silver’s chest. A strange, slow heartbeat, but something else, like a chamber echo. But the thought of the sea and Silver skipped his heart and he reciprocated the kiss. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was just the two of them beneath the boiling roar of the Mediterranean sky and upon her sea. Out here, in the air fresh and the salt curling off the waves, Jim felt more than alive with Silver.  He felt tuned into something rare, something unique, a line of knowing that ran unchecked between them like spiritual blood. It was if they had trekked these shores before, had known the sound of each other's voices caught in the wind. It was a fanciful idea, and a pretty one, and Jim was sure sceptical Silver could call it a young romantic dream ( _utter crap, but such pretty soundin' crap. Such a poet, Jim-Lad!_ )  
  
They spent the entire day on the sea. Jim's pink skin was cracking to the tan beneath, and Silver, always bronze from sun and toil, lent on his wheel and drank from his flask, swaying with the breeze, singing strong in time with the currents clipping against the bow.   
  
"As a lad, Jim!" Silver hung over the helm, fishing for a cigarette. Jim held out his lighter, and Silver looked toward Jim with an affection so full his heart skipped like the white off the breakers. "As a boy, I would look out on the water and see all the rich men out there on the docks, white suited with shoes of real leather, and I would say to the boys, "one day, that'll be me." And how they laughed, Jim, but I knew one day I would have gold rings on my fingers, and here I am, on a large boat on blue brine, and..." He waggled his fingers, the sun hitting the gold bands. "...here I be, Jim."  
  
He shifted his hand through Jim's bleached hair, sliding his finger to the firm length of Jim's jaw.  
  
"Yes." He said softly. "Gold."  
  
A tingle ran from Jim's spine, and he closed the space between them. Silver wrapped his arms strongly around Jim, half lifting him off his feet, a strength that fluttered Jim's stomach. 

"I..." Jim began to pull at Silver's shirt, sinking to his knees. He looked up at Silver, eyes huge, his body nervous. "I-I want to make you feel good."  
  
Silver raised his eyebrows.  
  
"Oh, Jim." He petted Jim's hair, curling his fingers in Jim's hair and lightly pulling back. Jim arched obediently, closing his eyes. Silver's voice was oddly flat. "The ocean made you bold, has it?"  
  
"I want to -" Jim ghosted Silver's zipper. "I want to please you...I want..."  
  
"Jim..." Silver's tone altered to one so full of warmth Jim trembled and drew the zipper down. Silver inhaled, and smiled, a real smile. "Oh, oh lad."  
  
It was hard. Jim hadn't - he hadn't done this before. There had been one attempt, but Jim had gagged and spat, and Silver had laughed so hard Jim had silently vowed never to try again. But here, on his knees, the blank blue of the ocean about them and the sky above, he felt bold and taken apart, by love of the bastard man who touched his hair, achingly gentle.  
  
Silver made no sound. He rarely did, preferring to string Jim like a screaming guitar, and as Jim tried, all he could feel was Silver's slight trembles and small pushes and pulls of breath beneath his parted lips, and Jim dared a look, only to see Silver lent against the railings, his head back toward the sky, a trust and relaxation so complete, that Jim became brave.  
  
Too brave.   
  
He hadn't calculated the considerable length of Silver and his own virgin gag reflex, but Silver growled and finished suddenly, almost too soon.   
  
Jim broke away, coughing, light-headedness riling his sight and Silver struck up, as if he had been shot, and took Jim's breathless face in his hands.  
  
Jim didn't know how he looked, slicked lips and mussed hair. The sun shone behind Silver, cloaking his face in shadow, but his eyes were concerned and wide and dark with lust.  
  
He chuckled, zipped himself up and untucked a handkerchief from his belt, holding it to Jim's mouth.  
  
"Spit."  
  
Jim did. Silver closed the spoilt linen and threw it over the side. Jim continued to cough as Silver knelt beside him.  
  
"That was quite something, Jim-Lad." Jim was against his chest, breathing in and out. Silver held a steadying hand on his back. "Not bad at all."  
  
"Did...?"  
  
Silver kissed him, possessively, Jim crawling his arms around his neck and pulling him down.   
  
Silver barbecued freshly caught fish for supper as the sun turned over in the sky, sweltering heat gentling to comforting warmth. He didn't take a bite himself, merely tasting the skin for flavour, and Jim ate and drank with Silver as finally, the stars came out on the sky.  
  
The coast was a faint layer on the horizon, docked with lights shimmering on the sea. Jim lent over the side, staring back at the land that held Garrett, Richard, Smollett. His future.  
  
"I think this be my last summer as a trainee."  
  
Silver was faced away, opening a bottle of wine.  
  
"Why do you say that, Jim-lad?"  
  
"He meant this to be a holiday, I think." Jim smiled, a little sadly. "After this, it'll be official. I doubt I'll see Garrett and Richard as much, and, well..."  
  
"Hm." Silver handed Jim a glass. "Does it have to be, hm?"  
  
"I can't stay in a half state, John. Half trainee, half adopted son."  
  
"You've paved your way, Jim." Silver folded his arms, leaning back against the railing. "You've worked hard and true, with a dead mother and a papa who never came home."  
  
Jim flinched.  
  
"Aye." Silver continued, apologetic. "I forget how young you are. How close it still all is."  
  
"Really? Is it that close?" Jim took a sip of his wine. "You speak of that day on the coast, looking out at the rich men on the yachts, and the way you talk. So vivid, you know? Like you can still taste the hope of it, but also the bitter, that they were the haves and you were the have not."  
  
Silver looked at him steadily.  
  
"Oh lad." He whispered. "Ye don't know the half of it."  
  
"It's going to be hard." Jim turned away. "When this ends."  
  
Silver clicked his tongue, a habit of confusion. Or a habit at playing at confusion.  
  
"What do you mean, Jim?"  
  
"That this..." Jim gestured between them. The heat prickled his cheeks, rose his blood like a hackle. But it had to be said. "That this will end soon."  
  
"End?" Silver put down his glass suddenly. The rim cracked. Jim jolted, placing a firming hand on the railing. "What are you on about, lad?"  
  
"You..." Jim swallowed. "You think this can continue? As....I thought, that when...that when I became apprentice CEO, we would hardly see each other, it seemed foolish to try to keep this going..."  
  
"Oh, well!" Silver held up his hands. He bore his teeth in an awful smile. “So this is it, is it? How it ends?”

"Don't be like that." Jim put down his glass. "I didn't mean it like that. John..."

"Aye no, none of that," Silver spun his hand in the air. "Surely it should be Mr Silver, now, hm? A Mr Silver to a Mr Hawkins, if it be so proper?"

_"Stop it!”_

Silence fell on the yacht, nothing but the lap of tide and the screech of gulls. Silver uncorked his flask, and not once lifting his glare off Jim, took a deep drink.

"I thought it would be wise." Jim chewed each word before he said it, trying to taste the hurt of it. "Because we cannot keep this a secret much longer. Because I am heading one way, and you are heading the other. It would be impossible. Don't think..." His voice broke. He hadn't taken it in yet, the hard reality of this moment, what it meant and what it carried within its awful proclamations, or the fact he had never seen this look on Silver's face, before, his eyes rounded and full of something like fear.  "...I want this. I don't want to end it. But I cannot see how we can make it work."

John did the worst thing he could do.

He turned away.

Jim's throat went tight.

"John..."

Silver did not answer. He closed the barbecue and replaced the wine in the cooler. Jim's heart began to creep up his wind pipe, bleeding from his mouth in words.

"Please." He begged. "Please, I'm sorry."

Silver went back to the helm, slowly steering them back toward land. A spiteful drop of moisture shimmered on his cheek.

"I didn't mean it." Jim took the stairs two at a time reach Silver, who stared back at him dully. "Please. I didn't mean it."

"Shouldn't say things you don't mean." was the rough reply.

"Please." Jim unthinkingly took the helm, his hand over Silver's. "I wasn't thinking. I hadn't thought it through, I just..."

Silver turned his chin up, looking at Jim beneath his lashes.

"I was scared." Jim admitted. That wasn't a lie, he was frightened, scared ice blooded by Silver's silence. "I was....Arrow striking you, his words, his warnings. I was scared they would think less of me, and that's selfish. Because I don't want to go a day without you, John. Never. I - It was awful when you weren't there when we parted in Spain, I thought I would die, and that scared me too, that I could feel like that. That I could be in love. And I love you."

Silver scoffed.

"I'm telling the truth," Jim was angry now. It was a more natural reaction to Silver, although no less painful. "Why do you think I creep out each night to see you? That I _lie_ to people who love me and to whom I love, who trust me to make sensible choices, and yet, here I am? That I vouch for you in business, keep Arrow off your back? I have a lot to lose, John. But I would lose it. For you. Because I risk it all because I want you more. And that's terrifying. And that's why I thought of ending it. Because it's beginning to be so intense. I'm losing control. I don't know..."

Nothing was making sense. Jim crumpled.

"I love you." He said, feeling utterly pathetic. "I love you so much and I don't know what to do." He began to cry, feeling pitifully young, for he had hurt Silver. Not pride, nor humour, nor business. He had hurt Silver, in a way he thought he couldn't be hurt. "Help me, please."

Suddenly Silver steered the helm, violently away from the coast.

"Say you’ll stay." He gripped Jim's chin with his forefinger and thumb. "Say you'll stay. Say it."

"I'll s-stay."

John growled.

" _Swear it."_

"I swear it," Jim was tired, dizzy with emotion. Silver, nodding satisfied, sat on the deck with Jim still clung to him.

"Many bastards I have known, Jim." Silver thumbed his hair. "But none with a heart like yours. Honest and true it be, braver than most, and damn stupid at times, full of silly ideas. And I am a selfish man, Jim. A magpie, if ye will. I want ye all to myself, all of that shine you keep in your chest."

Jim curled in closer.

"You know I love you, Jim." Silver opened his lap, gesturing to Jim to lay down. _So tired_. "And so, I want you to come back with me."

"What?" Jim battered his eyes, trying to rise. But Silver kept him there.

"Stay in my house, Jim. Eat my food. Aide in my business." He stroked away a stray tear on Jim’s cheek. "Share my bed."

“I…” Noise rushed hard in Jim’s ears. “I…”

“Hm.” Silver pecked at his face. His lips pondered on Jim’s neck, tasting the salt on the skin. “What say you, hm?”

“Yes.” It was madness. Complete madness. His life was laid out before him, Smollett’s neat lines and check boxes, a year by year outline of his profession. But John was here, human chaos in tiger teeth and sunglasses. But Jim loved him, and that made the difference. He was terrified as he said it again, heart beating against his chest like a moth to a scorching bulb. “Yes.”

Silver _dissolved_. It was a lessening of every muscle, a relief so acute it seemed to disband his very bones, and he laughed like a child and laid down beside Jim on the deck.

The stars were out. Polaris sparked like glass, sharp in the pit of Jim’s eye. Silver sought his hand. His fingers were smoothly kissed, from the bone to the palm to the tender dent of his wrist, and he felt the tiniest nip, almost akin to a bug bite.

“Oh…!”

“Ssshhh.” Silver laid his jacket over Jim. He lay back, his hands behind his head. “Sleep now, lad. I be here.”

There were beds in the cabin. Comfortable beds, the best money could buy. But out here, on the deck, the starlight and the sea. Jim had known it before, once upon a time. In a dream, in an undiscovered history, he had known it. He curled under Silver’s coat, suddenly impossibly drowsy, empty headed despite the life he may or may not have gambled away.

 

* * *

 

The world stirred.

It was morning, but only just. Through the long line of portholes, the stars were vanishing in the candy cane pink of the sky. Jim stretched, scratching his head. The dance of the ship beneath the deck had inflicted on him all manner of strange dreams, worlds he had passed through, so vivid and clear as he lived them, now groggy with the clean light of reality.

The space beside him was empty. The sheets were still clean and drawn tight. Silver hadn’t been to bed at all. Jim had wondered, for he was certain he had scented Silver in the night, felt his arms and breath, only to feel the weight of Silver’s coat slip off his shoulders as he went to rise.

“John?”

From the bathroom there was the sound of retching.

Jim went to the door and knocked.

“Are you alright?”

The retching was violent. Jim tried the knob. It was locked.

“ _Silver_ …”

“I’m alright.” John’s voice was haggard. “Fine, Jim. Just give me a minute.”

He was talking, so he couldn’t be that sick. Well, he certainly wasn’t seasick, a sailor like Silver, and he hadn’t eaten anything the previous night, so…

Putting on Silver’s coat, Jim ventured above deck, the surprising chill making him sneeze. They were close to shore, but not quite, the mooring safe enough away to not be seen. He leant over the railing, watching the wind skim the surf, and idly felt in the pockets of the coat. Something heavy and metallic was weighing down one side. Confused, Jim pulled out the infamous flask. Silver plated it was, engraved with the Initials J.S with a large enamelled galleon beneath it. Dented, heavy, well loved, and still half full.

Jim glanced back at the cabin. He could no longer hear Silver. Fascinated, he unscrewed the top, and waved it under his nose. It wasn’t brandy, usually Silver’s poison, neither was it whiskey. In fact, it smelt downright unpleasant, ripe and meaty, an iron tanged stink. Jim gagged and screwed it up. Maybe it was medicine. Was Silver sick? Was that why he became so emotional last night? Was that why –

Oh, fuck.

Jim remembered.

Excitement, panic, all manner of emotional bedfellows leapt in his gut, and he slipped the flask back into his pocket.

“So…” Silver’s smooth voice made him start. Leant against the cabin door, John looked pale with passing sickness, but brisk and cheerful. “Did ye have a swig?”

“No.” Jim beckoned him over. “It smelt disgusting, what is it?”

“Aye.” Silver flashed his teeth. “It be too mature a taste for you, laddie.”

“Laddie” was a dangerously neutral term.

“Is it medicine?”

Silver chuckled, putting his hand on Jim’s hair.

“Maybe,” He said. “I fear it be working not so well now.”

Jim gave him a sideways look.

“Yesterday morning,” He put his hands together, observing the frill of white on land he assumed to be the driftwood path. “You said you didn’t know if you were up or down. You didn’t know what was happening.”

Silver was watching him intently.

“…can you tell me what you meant?” Jim continued. “What it was that made you turn suddenly? Last night…”

“Aye!” Silver pulled Jim into a one-armed hug. “I was hard on you, last night. I didn’t mean it, lad.”

“If something was wrong, you would tell me?” Jim looked him in the eye. “If you were sick or worried. Please don’t lie to me. I can’t cope with it, all this guessing.”

Silver smiled. He palmed Jim’s cheeks and kissed him. There was a triumph in it. Silver tasted of iron, of pulpy fruit and seaweed. Jim broke away, confused, only for Silver to bite at his jaw, his neck.

“I’m not sick, Jim.” Silver didn’t look sick. Despite his pallor, he looked strong. Stronger even, thicker in his shoulders and chest. “Better than ever before, Jim-Lad.”

They had to finally bring into shore. Jim dozed beside the railing as Silver steered. As they got near the dock, Jim was hit with a smell. It was ripe, meaty. Rotten.

Jim gagged, covering his nose. Silver didn’t make a sound but slipped on his sunglasses and silently drew away from the helm.

A crowd had gathered on the beach. Sailors, washerwomen, tourists. Lying on its side, the tide lapping at its corpse, was a great white shark. Button black eyes peered off into nothing, its maw gaping, its pale flesh ripped away at the side, great slabs of meat hanging dry and white in the sunlight. Knelt at the head of it was the owner of the Gargoyles museum, his matted hair hiding his face from view. There were mutterings and gasps and flashes of cameras. Jim looked again and realised why the surprise. There was no blood in the creature.

Garrett was there alone, frowning, speaking to the old sailor, who looked up and caught Jim’s gaze as the boat sped past. Jim looked away, feeling sick.

“Did you see that?” He called over to Silver, who drew the boat effortlessly back into port.

“Bloody big thing, wasn’t it?” Silver was smiling. “Got beached, I take it?”

“No.” Jim jumped down onto the small pier. “Been ripped in half. Bloodless.”

“Oh?” Silver tied the rope to the ship hook. He was so quick doing it, fingers flexing like magic. Jim almost got distracted. Almost. “Fancy that.”

“I think I’ll have a look.” Jim began to walk in the way of the beach. “Its wounds looked odd. As if it had been bitten over and over, as opposed to one big squelch bite.”

“Oh, lad!” Silver’s hand was on his shoulder, lightening quick. Jim jolted at the touch. He hadn’t heard him move. “Why, to look at a thing like that? Too gruesome this early in the morn. Say we go and have breakfast, hm?”

“I…”

Silver fished the flask from Jim’s pocket and took a drink. Jim looked between him and the distant crowd and nodded.

“They’ll be asking questions, Jim.” Silver smoothed out his hair. “Where you’d been and why. No need for that, hm?”

“I suppose.” Jim agreed, following him off the pier and away from the gull pecked shark rotting in the sun.

 

* * *

 

Garrett hated seeing anything die. Richard would tease him later he knew, even with their plan occupying Richard’s waking hours.

He had seen pictures and videos of dead creatures washed up on shore, gut bursting whales and sharks bitten in half. He had never seen a Great White up close, especially not one like this. People had out cameras and phones. Garrett kept his camera, unused, religiously by his side.

But something was missing. He had looked out and thought the shark was a big dinghy or a float washed ashore, for the coming tide had shielded the body from view, but something had become unusually apparent. The creature had no blood. The water was blue and clean about it, although the stink of open meat was attracting the gulls.   
   
The sailor turned curator was there, up to his gnarled knees in the surf, rolling the shark over. The skin was caved, mutilated, by a creature with a jaw that seemed to fold over with rows upon rows of sharp pincer teeth. There were tears and rips where the creature had been forced still, claws around the neck and the gut punched clean through.  
  
"Do yourself a favour, boy." The sailor tramped up to Garrett, patting his shoulder strongly. "You be more sensitive than the gawking tourists, and I see that, but your camera is a better sight then theirs. Take a picture of that bite for me, will ya?"  
  
Regretfully, Garrett took out his camera and obliged. The sailor spat in the tide, removing his hat, pushing back his corn bleached hair. Something in the action made Garrett pause. The man turned back to look at him, the sun behind him, and Garrett clicked his camera quickly and hid it away.  
  
"What's your name?" He called out to the sailor, who blinked at him with pristine blue eyes.  
  
"Leland." He said. "And I must say, I'd love the name of the _thing_ who did this."

 

* * *

 

“Why Jim, these places are supposed to have the finest fish restaurants in the world.” Silver was talking animatedly as they traversed the street. Jim had suggested the driftwood path; Silver had complained that it was old and uneven underfoot, and he fancied the open coastal cafes and young families fleeting along on the seawall. “Why lad, I simply must take you on a gastric tour of the place. Feed you up nice on good tastes, give you some education.”

 Silver's hands were clean and manicured, his beard freshly trimmed. He smelt perfumed, breezy and unbelievably good as if he’d taken particular care that morning. His lustrous ringlet hair was pleated with gold beads, and his eyes twinkled behind his sunglasses. Even his prosthetic was polished. Jim wondered passingly about the fanfare of it. Silver had always taken care of himself, but lately, it was as if he was closely monitoring what he wore, how he presented himself.

Jim thought, with a blush, that he hoped he wasn't doing it for him.

People were turning in the street to look at them. This was typical for Silver. He strode through life as if he owned it, his easy charms gilding how people perceived him. Especially today, he looked particularly handsome, confident in his skin and silks, and he smiled chivalrously at a group of young women barely a few years older than Jim. They giggled behind their hands. Jim went to make a comment – almost – before he saw that they were looking at him.

Jim flushed, catching his reflection in a shop window. His hair was bleached gold, his skin the same colour, his blue eyes standing out as sapphires. He was dressed in the clothes Silver had given him, although they were crinkled and loose from wear and sea salt, it worked somehow, the collar dipped and showing off his chest, his hoop a shine in his hair. Jim had never thought of himself as handsome, had always disliked the baby jut of his jaw and what Richard had called gooey eyes, but here, he looked different. As if, without his knowledge, he had undergone a transformation, slid into a carefree skin that tingled with sin.

“Hm.” Silver slid his arms around his shoulders. Jim didn’t jump, even if they were near the hotel, out in the open where all could see. The girls were still, circle eyed. “Like what you see, Jim?”

“I look different.”

“You look like a man of the world, Jim.”

“I look like your man,” Jim said, teasing, before the meaning of his words did a full U-turn and smacked him straight in the head. He groaned, but Silver chuckled, flicking Jim’s piercing with his thumb.

“You are, now.” He whispered in his ear. “Aren’t you?”

* * *

 

Richard’s knees were taking a serious carpet burn. He was crouched in the corridor, Garrett a nervous lookout, wiggling the key card in its little catch.

“Bloody thing is stubborn,” He hissed through his teeth. “It doesn’t like it. Shit.”

Garrett peeked over his shoulder.

“Hey, why don’t you turn it round?”

“What am I, an idiot? I already…oh.”

The key card slid in, nice and simple, and the boys slunk in.

“Okay,” Richard said, scoping the room. It was average. Rumpled bed, half-eaten dinner, open suitcase and questionable Kleenex stuffed in the bin. “He’s got to have the computer stuff stashed. Search out, and we’ve got to be quick.”

It didn’t take long to find, for beneath Jerry’s suitcase was a laptop bag and two hard drives.

“There might be a password, Richard.”

“Yeah.” Richard gritted his teeth, booting the computer. “And maybe a hint. Give me some time, I might be able to disable the main…”

“We have no idea how long we’ve got,” Garrett was opening drawers, searching lightly through anything resembling paperwork. “It’ll be hard luck.”

“Wait…okay.” Richard rubbed his chin. “The hint says “birthplace.” But that could be anything.”

“He was born in Bristol!”

“Bristol’s a damn big place.”

“Could it be a hospital, then?” Garrett sat cross legged beside him. “A county? A town? A house? What could it be?” He peered hard at the hint. “It says six digits, numbers and letters.”

“Bristol is seven digits.” The computer beeped. Rejected. “Fuck. Six digits, letters and numbers, and birthplace. Well that sucks. If we were facing a Sphinx, it would have eaten us by now.”

They sat for what seemed like forever, Garrett ripping his nails raw with his teeth and Richard rubbing his hands over his face.

Then.

“Wait!” Richard stood bolt upright. Birthplace, letters and numbers, six digits. “Wait, is there an address here? Like, a letter from home or something?”

“Well…” Bless Garrett, he rarely asked questions. The blind faith was touching right about now. He rose and returned to the drawer, shuffling through. “Nothing like that, but there’s a postcard.”

“From home?”

“No, to home.”

“Well, who to?”

Garrett squinted at it.

“He’s got terrible handwriting, give me a sec. Um – Mum. It says Mum.”

“Perfect!” Richard bounced to his feet, snatching it clean from Garrett’s hand, and lo and behold, there it was. “The postcode. Don’t you see? Six digits. Letters and numbers. I bet you his ol’ Bristol Mum never moved out of her shack. Let’s pray.”

He dropped excitedly down, Garrett vibrating beside him.

Richard cracked his fingers.

“Let’s give it a whirl."

* * *

 

 

“Mr Silver!” A cry of John’ name parted the crowd. Jim recognised it as Pea, the man with the bowling ball head who had sat and chewed Silver’s grub only the day before. Silver groaned, releasing Jim. Pea hurried up. He looked sweaty, grey-faced, beneath the sunshine. Jim peered at him curiously. “It’s Jerry, sir. He’s…got a problem.”

“That be it, is it?” Silver showed his teeth. “A problem enough to interrupt me on my day off, hmm?”

“He’s…” Pea coughed. “He says it’s serious, sir.”

Silver’s lip curled.

“Fine.” He said, slipping his business smile on _tight_. “Do me a favour, Pea. Keep Jim here occupied. Take him to our favourite eatery, order him coffee and something sweet.” He turned back to Jim. “I won’t be long, love.”

He combed Jim’s jaw with his thumb and placed upon his lips a kiss so faint and tender Jim’s legs buckled at the knee.

With a wink, Silver took off, disappearing among the crowds.

It took Jim a moment for the euphoria to pass and the frustration – mild, grating – to set in.

He’d left Jim to be occupied. Like a damn child.

But he had called him Lo –

Fuck.

“Hey, Pea.” Jim massaged his temples. Pea looked up, visibly hungover. “Fancy something stronger than coffee?”

Pea chortled.

“Aye. You’re alright, kid.”

 

 

* * *

 

Richard never felt brave. Terminal cowardice was one of his defining traits. No wonder no-one wanted to adopt him.

But now, yes! He felt like a God. The USB was fat with files, both from the laptop and the battered hard drives, and from what he could see, the folders were encrypted. No hassle for a Tech Wizard like him.

Trust Garrett to ruin his power fantasy.

"Richard!" Garrett was shaking his shoulders with such force Richard's X-Men t-shirt tore at the seam. "Richard, somebody is coming!"  
  
"What?" Richard shoved the USB in his pocket. "Where? From which direction, dammit? Is it the maid?"  
  
"No, it's..." Garrett swore under his breath. John Silver's voice, urgent and fierce, was climbing in volume, and beside that, the roughness of Jerry Calico, meeting his in desperation, and the two boys pulled at each other desperately, looking from left to right.  "We've got to hide!"  
  
"The bathroom?"  
  
"No shit for brains, he'll need to piss sometime!"  
  
"Don't be such an ass!" Garrett spun wildly, focusing on the walk-in cupboard. "In there! Quick!"  
  
They dove in just as the handle began to turn. It was cramped in the cupboard, and hot, and stank of camel cigarettes and beer. A slither of light was the only window to the room, and to the voices, now fully raised, and the slam of the door.  
  
"It's getting bad, John." Jerry sounded like death. There was a rasp to his voice, a jitter, a tear of hunger and desperation so potent Richard felt Garrett shudder. "I don't know what's happening to me. I be starving one minute, dead thirsty the next, shaking like a whore's legs..."  
  
A slap.  
  
"Pull yourself together, Jerry." Silver was cold, demanding, a disdain so raw it was Richard's turn to shudder. _Ah. There he is_. "It be out of body at first, I give you that, but ye must endure it to reap its benefits."  
  
"Benefits?" Jerry stuttered. "There are benefits to this? I- I almost grabbed the maid, Silver. She was standing there, the age of my damn mother, even looked like her too, and all I wanted to do was..."  
  
Another slap. Harder. Jerry cried out at that, and through the crack of the door, Richard saw him cradling his face. The skin beneath his cheek had riven, revealing a spat of blood.  
  
"Listen to me!" Silver sounded like a monster. Richard gripped Garrett's hand in the dark. "Ye quiet down, Jerry. Ye asked for this and I gave it to ya, and now is not the time to be ungrateful. Hold it in, wait for the right moment, and all shall be as we planned."  
  
There was quiet for a moment, and then, low whines, hints of tears. Jerry was a depressed figure, hugging his stomach, and Silver, stood over him like a King.  
  
"I hurt, Silver," Jerry raked his stomach, sobbing. "This hunger is like nothin' I've ever known. It's killin' me."  
  
"I bet." Silver hummed, before he sighed, and bent down, and Richard felt a lurch, for he thought they were about to kiss, only for Silver to lick the blood off Jerry's face. "I have not been kind, Jerry. I had the run around last night. Ye have been good, as always. I be undeserving of such a friend."  
  
He rolled up his sleeve, and with a slit of a claw nail, opened his vein.  
  
Garrett stifled his gasp behind his hand. Richard groped for his fingers, feeling the ring.  
  
Jerry was saying no through his horrid tears, shaking his head, but Silver fisted the back of his hair and forced his mouth to the wound, where Richard was certain he heard the literal break of Jerry's resolve.  
  
There were ugly slurping sounds, visceral to the ear, with Silver winding his tongue in emissions of pain and pseudo pleasure. It seemed to last a lifetime, the ghastly noises and the cold sweat shared between Richard’s and Garrett’s clasped hands.  
  
Silver finally realised Jerry, who fell back, completely limp.  
  
"Good, isn't it?" Silver was breathless, sated. "Feel better, Jerry?"  
  
"Yeah." There was Jerry, good old Jerry, back to himself. "Jesus Christ, that was...fuck."  
  
"Better than a fuck and a good cigar." Silver chortled. "Get downstairs, show ye face. Eat some human food. Tell a joke, fool the boys. Keep an eye on Arrow for me."  
  
Garrett mouthed "Arrow?" Richard motioned at him to be quiet. It wasn’t the mention of Arrow that churned him. It was the talk of “human food.”

“Gladly, Boss.” Jerry had done a full 360. He sounded every bit as cocky, every bit as blissfully laconic as when he had smiled his awful smile at Richard on the driftwood path. He stood up straighter, and maybe it was Richard’s tense imagination, but he moved smoother, cleaner, quieter. “Did ye have a nice time last night? Give the lad a good going over, yeah?”

“Hmmm…” Silver slid off his glasses. He was faced away from Richard and Garrett, all they could spy was the glimmer of gold in his long braids, and the sudden drawing of fear in Jerry’s face. “Once upon a time, my darlin’ Jerry, I would have laughed that off. But things being what they be, my offer was accepted, and now, speak so loose of the lad again and I’ll split ya from your belly to your brain. Understood?”

“J-John…”

“Jerry.” Silver declared in a parody of good humour, turning away toward the closet door. Garrett stifled Richard’s cry with his hand, biting his lip bloody to keep his own mouth shut.

Silver’s irises were blistered red, sat swimming in pupil black, and Silver chuckled to himself, sliding on his sunglasses.

“Understood.” Jerry gabbled. “I-I understand.”

“Good.” Silver said lightly, sounding every bit as warm and human as he could manage. Richard could feel the bite of the USB in his open palm. “Downstairs, then. Hurry up.”

There was the shuffle of footsteps, the closing of the door, the raised good-natured voices of the two associates, now friends again, filling the corridor and fading sweetly away.

Richard mouthed at Garrett in the dark.

“ _That_ is a figment of my imagination?”

 


	5. The Compass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. Had holidays and work eating up all my time.
> 
> Just a huge thank you for the support, comments and kudos I have received so far for this story! It means so much and I can't thank you all enough.

“Did you see?” Richard scrambled out of the door as if the room was on fire. The sunlight was still there in the hallway, stark and awful, laughter and summer music lifting from the balconies and pools. Garrett stood in the hallway behind Richard, silent. Richard was gabbling to himself, panic rising fresh and fast. “M-Maybe it was a drug. Like, there were high on something. Or a cult, or..”

“Or maybe what you saw is just that,” Garrett sounded flat, rational. Richard hugged himself, trying to ease the chill from his skin. “Something you can’t believe.”

Richard stood up, facing Garrett, the steel blue of his friend’s odd eye fixed onto him. Richard swallowed, hard.

“I’m gonna be sick.” He broke away, heaving. “Oh shit, I’m gonna be sick!”

* * *

 

The eatery, as Silver had called it, was hidden below a stone staircase that gave way to the beach, wide wood tables decorated in blue lace out the front, faded white letters scrawled above the entrance. Jim kept carefully behind Pea, who parted the street as he walked, a swagger that would have been intimidating if you didn’t know him, and even then, was intimidating all the same, as he closed his face in a scowl if any looked his way.

Before they even set foot in the bright and airy inside, they were accosted by a stuttering waiter, bypassing the queue to seat them immediately. Pea, impressed, took his seat heavily, smirking at the frowning locals. Jim, awkward, sat opposite him, fingering his sore ear.

Without Silver as a buffer, it was clear to Jim that he had little in common with Pea, even with the faint banter from earlier, and it was even clearer that Pea looked ill. Sweat cloaked his bowling ball head, a familiar pallor bruising his blacked eyes further.

“You alright, Mr Pea?” Jim inquired politely. A grunt and a smirk were his only response, and he wordlessly gestured to the menu. Jim sat back, his appetite dwindled by the whispers twittering about them like nervous birds.

The stuttering waiter reappeared as if wound up on invisible clockwork. Jim faintly ordered a croissant and coffee.

Pea scoffed.

Jim set his jaw.

“I’ll have a breakfast omelette.” He handed the menu back to the waiter. “And a coffee. Strong, please.”

“That’s more like it,” Pea grunted, twisting up his face in what could have been a smile. “Hey, Frenchie. I’ll have a steak.”

“A steak, sir?” The waiter darted a look back at the kitchen. “It’s uh…barely nine o’clock.”

“So what?” Pea sat his elbows on the table. “You know _how_ I like it, yeah?”

The waiter gathered up the menus and vanished back into the kitchen. Pea chuckled and took a handful of bread from the basket, pulling it apart beneath his bull fingers, and finally reached for the newspaper.

Jim, grateful for the distraction, played with the end of his napkin. Soft choral music played in the background. The whispers faded.

“Relax, kid.” Pea rustled his newspaper. “I don’t bite.”

“Heh.” Jim pulled himself a glass of water. The early morning, the dead shark, Silver’s perfume and promises. He was feeling faintly nauseous. From excitement or dread, who knew. “By the look on your face outside, I wasn’t so sure.”

“Aye.” Pea chortled. If he would have done so if Jim wasn’t Silver’s current fling, who knew. “That be no crime, Mr Hawkins. You don’t get respect, you get piss all.”

“Huh.” Jim adjusted himself as the coffee arrived. He took a scalding sip, burning his tongue. “Is it true you and Silver go way back?”

“Oh, laddie!” Pea slammed his hand down on the table. A tiny dog, huddled beneath the opposite chair, growled. “My my boy, we go back. Back to the ol’ shanty towns in Bristol Docks. We all knew each other, cousins or neighbours or bastard sons with different mothers.”

“You knew each other as kids?”

“More or less. I were a teen when I met Silver. Jerry Calico introduced ‘im to me. We drank beer on the seawall. I remember it cos’ it were a blood moon. ‘Course, Silver had his two pins then.”

Jim coughed into his coffee.

“Really?” He swallowed, fighting the burn. “What was he like back then?”

Snorting, Pea fished around in his coat pocket and slapped a battered picture on the table. It was crumpled on the edges, creased from folding and wear. The colours were washed out, paled by age, but there, there was Pea, grinning with a head full of red hair, stood with a squat woman with his pinprick eyes. To his left was Jerry, broad and tanned and smiling, with a manic gleam in his eye not unlike Garrett’s. But there, besides Jerry, an arm slung heavy over his shoulders, was John. He was young, barely eighteen by the looks of things, his hair thickly plaited down his back. Jim had never seen him clean-shaven before, nor so unlined. A cigarette dangled between his perfect teeth, his lips curled in his signature smile, a skillet in one hand and a cook’s apron tied around his thinner waist.

“Lucky bastard kept his hair,” proclaimed Pea, feeling along his reflective scalp.

It was bizarre to see Silver flesh on both sides. Jim rubbed Silver’s face with his thumb. He no longer felt sick, but light-headed, like at the airport.

“What happened to…”

The omelette arrived. Jim snatched up the picture just in time, handing it back to Pea, who took it like a zombie, for all his attention was glued to his breakfast plate.

Jim’s stomach lurched back to earth.

A steak, raw as new meat, swimming in red juice.

Jim’s neck itched and ached.

 

* * *

 

“I trust all be well, my boys?” Silver’s hands clapped on Jim’s shoulders. Pea was all but ready to lick the plate clean. Silver observed the plate with a bemused _“heh.”_ He turned back to Jim, who looked away. “Had a good breakfast, lad? Sorry I were so long. Jerry bein’ a wuss and all that.”

“Not taking to it, Silver?” Pea murmured under his breath. Silver placed one arm around Jim and pulled into the bulk of his shoulder. He was bolder now, further relaxed. He carried Jim’s sworn word on his back like a bind of good luck.

“He’s fine.” He answered, a twitch in his brow. “Low blood sugar. Idiot should eat when he needs to eat.”

“Silver, is…?”

Silver twisted his head down and silenced Jim with a long kiss. His nails played sharp against the soft skin at the back of his neck, teasing the hairs and driving Jim soppy. Jim thought of the smiling youth and his stomach wrung in response. He kissed back with a passion that touched Silver’s smile on the corner of his lips, and he barely had time to note the small incisive scratch caught on his skin as they broke apart.

“Ah…” Jim felt the back of his hand. Silver winked, sucking his thumbnail clean. “Is...damn, is Jerry alright?”

“Fit as a fiddle, Jim-Lad.” Silver dismissed Pea with a fling of his hand. Pea nodded, downed his beer and slunk out of the café like a bad dream. The little dog snapped at his heels, whining at the top of its breath. “Why, ye worry so much, such a soft-hearted lad.”

“Someone has to be.” Jim rocked back on his chair. Silver scanned the menu, visibly disinterested. “Pea showed me a picture. You, about my age.”

“I know the one.” Silver said lightly, turning over the menu. “Mama Pea, Black Eyed Pea, Jerry and meself. I cooked her birthday dinner. Best fish and chips the ol’ girl ever had.”

“You look different without your beard.”

“Not more handsome, truly?” Silver laid down the menu. Jim could tell from his tone there was no point in pushing the issue, even if the unspoken question scalded his tongue like the coffee. Instead, he sighed and pushed away his empty plate.

“You’re not hungry, Silver. Why are you bothering to look at the menu?”

“Hm? No, lad. The font be too small. What am I, a goddamn doctor? Need a magnifying glass for this shit.”

“You didn’t eat last night.” Jim pulled the menu away. “You didn’t eat the barbecue the night before that. The only time I see you consume anything is when you drink from your flask. And now you are saying it’s not working.”

“Hm.” Silver rubbed his chin, measuring Jim with his gaze. Something red peaked in the centre of his pupil. Jim sat up suddenly. “It be not, lad. Maybe I be dying.”

“Yeah, sure.” Jim bit back his panic, schooling his face in apathy. “Are you going to eat anything or what?”

“There's a question burning you, lad.” Silver uncorked his flask. He took a drink and winced. “Know I can see it. Wouldn't want there to be any secrets between us, all things being what they are.”

 “In the picture,” Jim said carefully. “You had no prosthetic.”

Silver laughed. He wrinkled his nose at the flask as if it had dealt him a personal insult. He appeared bigger, somehow. Coloured in with greater vivacity, teeth too white. Too groomed even. Strangely, his cuffs were tugged tight to his wrists. For a man who freely showed off his baking brawn arms, to see him covered was unusual.

“When I had both me legs, you mean.” He said sweetly.

Jim rolled his eyes.

“Yes, obviously.”

“And that question is…?”

“You know the question.” Jim crossed his arms, rocking back in his chair. “You're not an idiot. Although you act like one sometimes.”

“Hmmm…” Silver leant his head to the side, levelling Jim with a calculating eye. Absently he wound his finger around the back of Jim’s scruff. "Why Jim," he said softly. "I fear ye would think less of me for it."

Jim kept his lips tight.

"I wasn't always this honest, lad." The admission visibly pained him. "When I talked of fine things that I saw as a lad, and things I wanted, well, I was willing to do anything to get it. And I made deals - foolish things, mind you - with those who had money and what money they did.”

“You were in hard times.” Jim kept his eyes down. “You had to do things you regretted. It's difficult when your prospects are limited.”

Silver laughed. It was an explosive snuff of sound, bitter.

“Don't you know the half of it, laddie.” He said plainly. “Oh my, what things I did. What things, oh me heart.” He lit a cigarette. “And I never regretted it. Not once, not ever. I won't lie to you, Jim-Lad. What I did, oh, I would do again.”

Beneath Jim’s shirt was his father’s compass. He had sought it before the journey on the yacht. He touched it, idle. Silver followed his hands with his eyes, drawing hard on his cigarette, inching up his lips in a knowing smile. Smoke met the downward turn of Jim’s lashes.

“I made deals. I worked hard and talked harder. Oh my Jim, was I good at talkin’. But there be one man who disliked my climbin’ up. I didn't cross ‘im. But he crossed me. He believed me a danger, ye see. I be young and ambitious, and he hated that. Oh, one day, we all be japin’ and havin’ a laugh, feelin’ the salt on our bones…”

His old West Country accent moved into his words, shadowed with memory, all learnt vowels flickering away like the ashes falling from his smoke.

“And he says I’m threatening. Says it as he laughs, but oh, I’m fond of ye John. Don’t want to kill ya, you know. And I know. I know his temper and his wicked sense of humour. Knows the bastard has killed men for less. So I smirk and say aren’t we friends, Bernie? Brothers from a different mother? Bastards from old maids?”

Jim clutched his compass hard. He didn't want to hear the rest of the story, even if the ending sat in flesh in front of him. Whatever Silver did, he didn't care. He was dishonest once, but so was Richard. He was here now, with him. He couldn't bear that someone had done that to Silver. Had _mutilated_ him so.

“What happened?” Jim asked, quiet.

“Well.” Silver’s hatred shuddered in spreading lips. “He had a wicked sense of humour, did Bernie Flint.”

The bulb above them began to fizz, to crackle. The pulsing light drew the dark in Silver’s pupils.

“Let’s just say,” Silver added. “That what happens when a mallet hits a peach?”

Jim couldn’t breathe. Silver was watching him intently, a swirl of colour bloodying his eye. Somehow, the sunshine seemed far away, the chitters of customers absent. The little dog began to yap and cry and scrabble at its owner’s legs.

The lights above fizzled, cracked, and shot to pieces.

Each bulb followed suit, plunging the restaurant into half-darkness. Shards of sharp and point sliced into Jim’s side. He hissed, thrusting his arm inside his jacket.

People scurried to and fro, fetching waiters and management. The lights sparkled like spitfires. The dog continued to bark until it became a scream.

Jim needed sunshine. He needed light and air and a bloody good gauze.

He ducked under Silver, barging past the waiting tourists. No sunshine greeted him. The air was chilled with a blinding wind, and above the tiled houses, storm clouds were collecting in fat clots. Rain began to strike the stones, building to a ferocity in the gales. Thunder rolled and lit the clouds in bursts of light.

“Jim.” Silver sucked his teeth at the sight, even as his voice was strangely faint. “That be nasty, lad. The hotel, well, she be lookin’ mighty fine right now.”

“Yeah.” Jim tucked his arm further into his coat. Pain cramped his senses. He staggered past Silver. “I need to see someone, I think. Cut my arm up badly from the exploding bulbs. Might need stitches…agh, fuck!”

He slipped on the gathering rain, bashing against the alley of the café. He opened his jacket, peeling back his sleeves to get a better look. Blood slithered in thick threads from a long open slit measured from his elbow to his wrist.

Jim paled.

His _wrist._

“You cut yourself?” Silver was alive, suddenly. “Let me see, lad.”

Jim riled back against the wall, twisting from Silver’s hands, even as he back toward him with rare strength.

“Need a doctor.” Jim’s voice shook. Silver’s pupils pulsed at the sight of Jim’s open arm. In the overcast light, Jim could see the churn of glass and wire pushed through the skin. He gagged. “Please. I’m losing blood. I feel…”

“Easy, there.” Silver’s palm rested on Jim’s mouth. “Ol’ John has you, love. No fear.”

He tore the sleeve free from the arm. In that moment, everything about him seemed to glitter. Gold rings, gold bands, gold braids.

Gold eyes.

_What?_

Silver brought his widening mouth to Jim’s arm and Jim swore, kicking out.

“Stop!” He bit behind Silver’s fingers, who rushed him back against the bricks with well-disguised strength. “This isn’t a game, you can’t…”

Silver’s lips met the wound.

Jim froze, disgusted. Fascinated.

He felt the wide mouth of Silver, and then, a stirring in his skin, as blood rose to meet the teeth and tongue. He shuddered, the dank of the rain dripping off his head and chin. Silver, on his knees, was being considerably soaked, fine linens sticking to his gleaming skin in sodden blacks.

Silver turned his head and spat out the glass and shrapnel. Jim heard the plink of it as it hit the gutter. His knees began to buckle. Silver was still there, still sucking so slow and close, trailing the wound with a tongue that seemed far too long. A weakness grew in Jim’s arm, stretching up to his head and chest, until finally, Silver drew away.

The wound was long and clean, a white slit of skin. Silver, unsmiling, took the discarded sleeve and bound it neatly. The rain fell on them both. Silver stood up, wiping his mouth, and removed his hand from Jim’s quivering lips.

Lightening cracked the sea, flaring the tide. The shark was being washed back to whence it came.

“Lad.” Silver’s voice was low, lower than the pounding storm. “Oh, oh lad.”

Jim held his aching arm to himself, the rain streaked with his tears.  He slid away from Silver, from the half smirk and the human eyes.

“This…” He hugged his wrist to his stomach. “This isn’t natural.”

Silver did not reply. Jim backed against the wall, rubbing his hands over his eyes. Rain dribbled down his face, slithering from his neck to his chest. He groped for his compass, fumbling it open, and stared down at the single point of the arrow.

Silver kept his distance, shadowed against the raging sea and the scurry of tourists racing for cover. Even with civilisation so close, they were apart, the two of them, held up in a world so quiet and terrible Jim could no longer stand it.

“Will you tell me now?” He ranted. “Will you tell me now what the fuck is going on?”

Silver approached. He placed his hand on Jim’s cheek, the wet rising a chill between them. Jim’s lip trembled. He bit it, hard, keeping in his breath.

Silver rested his head on Jim’s shoulder, curling him in until they were close, desperately close, not an inch to be found between them.

“You’re gonna catch a chill, Jim-Lad.” He whispered in his ear. “Let’s get you back, and I’ll have a proper look at that cut of yours.”

 

* * *

 

The thunder rolled along the stretching clouds, smothering the summer blue sky. Smollett stared at the last cusps of the sun before he sighed and locked the balcony doors.

“An awful day, Mina.” He shook his head. “And I was hoping for one of our evening walks.”

“I do so like our evening constitutionals,” Benjamina was inspecting herself in the mirror, powdering her enviable cheeks. She caught Smollett’s eye in the reflection, curving her Cupid’s bow into a sensuous smile. “As you know, my ankles swell in this heat.”

“Ah, yes.” Smollett perched on the end of the bed. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to have another night in.”

Mina’s smile became downright salacious. _How beautiful she is_ , Smollett thought. _Full and lively and demanding of everything and everyone._

But Smollett’s mind was elsewhere.

“Mina…” He asked, adjusting the strap on his watch. “Do you think that I would be a good father?”

Mina dropped her powder puff, choking on her cocktail.

“My darling…!” She shook out her curls. “Whatever makes you say that?”

Smollett smiled faintly. Mina caught his eye again in the mirror, but her face was warm and concerned and she sighed, pattering the powder off her silk skirt.

“It’s just…” Smollett continued. “I worry that I am not doing right by Mr Hawkins.”

“You can call him Jim, darling.” Mina stood up. “I think all this standing on ceremony does is cause distance.”

“Benjamina, if anyone dared to call you Mina unauthorised, you would punch them through the wall.”

“Precisely. But do as I say and not as I do, and…” She sucked her full lips. “I am not attempting to build a father-son relationship.”

“I would never replace his father.” Smollett felt the bed give under the comforting dip of Mina. “I do not want to. But…the other night. When he was ill, he came to me. Laid his head on my shoulder. I…”

Benjamina lightly touched his arm.

“We can try again, you know.” Her voice was different. Gone was the husky tones, the French embellishments. This was just Mina, a woman born in London’s backstreets, a little tired and touched with love. “Get a second opinion. What do the doctors know, hm? We’re not that old.”

“Oh Mina,” Smollett shook his head. “No, no love. I wouldn’t put you through that again.”

“Hm.” She squeezed his shoulder. A moment passed, bittersweet, and he could not see her eyes before she added; “Tell me about Jim, Mon Ami.”

“Well…” Smollett shook his head. “Samuel has concerns.”

She scoffed.

“When does he not?”

“He is concerned…” Smollett patted her hand. “…about Jim spending time with Mr Silver.”

Benjamina jolted like a whip crack. Smollett gasped.

“Are you alright, Mina?”

“I’m fine.” She stood up, fiddling with her heavy coin necklace. She sashayed to the window, looking out among the grey dreg, her ample chest lifting and falling. Smollett creased his brow. “And why would Sam say such a thing?”

“He believes him to be a bad influence.” Smollett continued, prudently. “I have always known Silver to be an interesting man, but personally…”

“Oh yes,” hummed Mina, beating back her coiffed curls. “Yes, he must certainly be that.”

“I thought…” Smollett hesitated. “That with your past with him, you could offer some counsel.”

Benjamina swivelled on her bare feet to stare back at him, her lips tight.

“You said you knew Jim’s mother,” She nestled herself against the balcony door, plucking at her dressing gown. “How did you know her?”

The words tipped the edge of Smollett’s tongue, tasting sweet and unusual in the memory, but the look on Benjamina’s face was softly crestfallen, a slow closing in of her tender ego. He shook his head suddenly.

“I don’t want to upset you, Mina.”

“Upset me? Hah!” She flung back her head in a shadow of her old pride. “It be me with the name of Smollett, darling. I cannot be so possessive as to begrudge your past girlfriends.”

“She wasn’t a girlfriend,” Smollett corrected gently. “I met her when I was still making my fortune, a pencil pusher at one of the firms. You knew I had rejected my inheritance, wishing to make my own way, and well, at that time, I wasn’t very good at it. But then, there was Sarah.”

Sarah, plain pretty Sarah, always with a story in her head and an eye for greater things. He formed her out of the shadows of the hotel room, her brown hair hiked up above her ears, foamy green eyes and a lover’s compass hidden in her pinafore.

“She rejected you.”

“Yes.” Smollett sighed. “I wasn’t her type. Too safe, I think. But she was pregnant and alone and I so desperately wanted to be a father. But she sent me away. She was adamant that the real father would appear. But he never did. She told Jim he died. I myself wasn’t sure if he did, and I would never speculate to Jim, to go back on his mother’s truths. But I was of the mind that she rather he died then the fact he never returned.” He mused, circling his wedding ring on his finger. “Jim is so like her, you know. That same dedication, that inherent decency. I promised her I would look after Jim. Of course, when I returned to Bristol, I found Jim a young teenager and well, Sarah had been dead for five years.”

Contented, Benjamina sat on the dressing chair, plucking each pin from her hair. There was an acute violence to the action.

“You know my past.” She said, clipped. “You know how I hate discussing it.”

Smollett swallowed.

“But…” she bit her lower lip. “You know that I had a _soiree_ with a bad sort. I was restless, desperate for attention, hungry for love. I don’t blame myself…” She waved her hand dismissively. “…never. But after our first separation, it was unbearable. You know how I _struggled_ , Smolley.”

“Of course, my love,” Smollett replied earnestly. “You know I would never hold anything against you, especially something so silly as your romantic history. You were a free woman, it was your choice and body, and I let you down...”

“You did.” Her eyes flashed with a show of her old temper, but she sighed and shook it away. “I took up with this _particular_ man. He was a scoundrel, built like a brick privy with a golden tooth and a beard he plaited in ghastly braids. But he made me feel protected, at least in the beginning. But he was codependent, believe me. A beast to contend with, and lousy in the sack…”

“Benjamina,” Smollett interrupted, delicately.

“Oh well.” She sniffed. “Anyway, I was his moll, I suppose. It was embarrassing to be seen with him. He drank like a fish and stank like one as well. I started to look elsewhere. And that’s when I met John.”

To hear Silver’s first name so clear and confused on his beloved’s voice awoke an uncharacteristic hackle down Smollett’s spine, but he nodded supportively.

“He was charming.” Her tone hardened. “Every day with him was like magic in a bottle. He could give you the world in his words, and so funny he was too, and cultured in food and travel, and he lavished upon me so much attention, oh, I felt drunk on it. But I was suspicious. He never told me anything.” She turned back to her mirror, picking the hairs out of her comb. “But he’s dangerous, Smollett. He always gives you the gilt instead of the gold. Sammy is a beaky old sod but he’s right.”

“How so?”

“John never shared a single thing with me,” Benjamina slammed down her brush, observing Smollett’s jump in the mirror. “He only gave whatever he could afford to give. Whilst he kept any shady dealings far from my attention, I was adamant he had some. He had a perilous company and everyone he met would be bowing to him in a few days, and I never understood the reason, and I think I didn’t want to.” She snuffled. “It was humiliating, the breakup, and the fallout! After all, he was dangerous and fun and addictive…”

 _The opposite of me,_ Smollett thought bleakly.

“…oh, but it was messy. But whether or not he is a danger to Jim…”

Smollett perked back to the situation at hand.

“Yes? Well, would he be?”

“Hm.” Benjamina cleared her high, pink throat. “He was very charismatic. A dark influence, if you will. He can be very persuasive and very invested in getting his own way. I certainly would not want to leave Jim afloat with Silver when he has an agenda, the slippery son of a…”

“Benjamina,” Smollett said, feeling rather faint.

“Sorry.” She rose an eyebrow. “Forgive me for the indelicacy Mon Ami, but I have to ask; is Samuel concerned about the business side or the _personal_ side?”

Smollett’s face glowered like the rouge on Mina’s dresser. She snickered, bouncing her curls to and fro.

“Well…” Smollett coughed. “If we must consider, briefly, that awkward avenue, then surely there should be no worry? If you had a relationship with Silver, then surely that…he would bear no interest for…”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, my love,” Benjamina said dully. “In my experience, he took both sexes to bed.”

Smollett spluttered again.

“No-one’s safe, sweetie.” Benjamina looked back at her mirror. The mascara had left black streaks running spider legs down her cheeks. “No-one’s safe.”

 

* * *

 

“Wow…” Garrett looked out toward the ocean from their window. “Look at that sky.”

“Fuck the sky.” Richard was huddled in his bedclothes, face peeped out of the bundle of blankets and duvets. The air conditioner was raging, but the two men were buried in their beds like children. Outside the soft sunshine had fallen to overcast skies, and with that, a violent rain. The laptop hummed on his knees, an uncomfortable heat. “Fuck it all. Fuck.”

“Are you going to be sick again?” Garrett pushed against his shoulder. Richard squeezed his eyes tight, feeling the hot skin and breath of Garrett, the brush of his hair against his cheek. He had been sick. Sick in pot-plants, sick in the sink, sick in the toilet. Garrett had cleaned it without a word. “I know you're scared.”

“Yeah, I'm scared.” Richard’s fingers were stuttering on the keys, shifting files by clockwork, even if his stomach cramped all kinds of ugly and the room swelled. “I need to get this done.”

“How long will it take?”

“I don’t know.” Richard liked the numbers. Numbers made sense. Disk drives made sense. Encryption, keys, security codes. All nice, easy things. “Not long.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Garrett shifted, sliding his hands under the pillows. Richard half squeaked, following the warmth of him, trying to remain as close as possible. Garrett pulled out his stack of books, opening them on his knee. Scrawled pictures of malformed faces, teeth, burnt yellow eyes mocked the corner of his vision. “Do you want to…?”

“You read.” Richard gulped. “I’ll do this. See what…see what you can find out if there is anything to find out.”

He didn’t believe. No, didn’t. Yes, did. What had he seen? Why had Garrett, eccentric Garrett, had accepted it so readily?

He pressed the _decrypt_ button on the screen. The numbers and files buzzed by, reflected in his shaking pupils.

* * *

 

“Easy now, lad.” Silver’s room was as they left it. Rumpled sheets, corked wine, the scent of sex still hinged on the air. They were dripping water, clothes wrung with moisture. The bottoms of Jim’s shoes squelched with each step. “Almost there.”

Jim was grateful for the dark. He sagged against Silver, who made quick work of his shirt, rolling the damp linen off his shoulders, easing gently down his ruined arm. So kind it was. Jim watched him warily. Yes, he could be kind. Silver pulled his belt free, unzipping Jim’s fly, peeling off his jeans until Jim stepped out of them.

There was something wrong. The blood, the teeth, the spit of wire and glass in gutters. It wasn’t normal. Jim knew that. Nor was Silver’s pallor at the airport, nor the wane in his strength and self-control, nor his tears. But neither was his strength, these new and impressive hungers. Maybe Silver was hiding something. Maybe –

_I don’t care._

Or did he?

Silver snatched a blanket from the cupboard, draping it around Jim’s bare shoulders. Silver still stood in his soaking clothes, and all he cared about was Jim’s comfort.

Jim let his head roll unto Silver’s shoulder, his arm dipping under Silver’s back. Silver petted his hair, kissing the constellation of scars on his neck.

“Get into bed, Jim.” Silver whispered. “Then let me see that graze of yours.”

“Not a graze.” Jim obeyed. Outside the storm raged, consistent in its blocking of the sun. Silver turned toward the window, a smile passing his lips. “More a bloody gouge, if you ask me.”

“So dramatic, Jim-Lad.” Silver traced the cut with his finger, looking upon it with a bizarre pride. He pulled off his own shirt, shaking himself out. He balanced his prosthetic leg on the bed, feeling along to the stump.

 Jim had traced the sunbeaten canvas of Silver’s back, his body, whenever Silver had permitted it, and like any secret, had sewn it in his memory. But on the arched wings of John’s shoulder blades, there were thin slits of scar tissue, slit diagonally from the centre of his back.

“John…” Jim adjusted himself in the sheets, sitting up. “What have you done to your back?”

There was the faintest pause in Silver’s actions, a pulse in the corner of his jaw.

“Do what, me lad?” He said roughly, as if he’d just swallowed hard whiskey. “I be a patchwork of scars and burns. If I remembered all of them, well, I’d be an oracle.”

“Do you remember how you _sucked_ glass and wire from my skin?” Jim answered, promptly. “Or have you so conveniently forgotten that?”

Silver clicked his tongue. Turning on his heel, he observed Jim levelly, an almost speech on his lips, before he chuckled and yanked a fresh shirt over his shoulders.

“Don’t know what you mean, Jim-Lad.”

“I think you do.”

“Oh, come now!” Silver threw up his hands. “Such deliriums, Jim-Lad. And after I’ve been as sweet as Mother Mary. No pleasin’ some folks.”

“Will you at least attempt to make it up with Arrow?” Jim slurred, turning in the bed clothes. Silver was near the counter, mixing a hot chocolate. His hand flashed into his pocket suddenly, moving from the cup and back again, and Jim tried to push himself up, confused. “Did you just…?”

“Aye, none of that.” He was plumped back down among the pillows, the drink pushed into his hands. Silver, spookily quick, flashed him a winning smile. “You drink that, lad. Need a bit of sugar, a touch of comfort.”

In his gaze was a spark of his old mischief, but also an expectation. He sat firmly on the edge of the bed, his arms crossed. Jim sat up slowly, curling his fingers around the scald of his cup.

“Of course I will attempt to patch it up with Sam.” Silver said, borderline dismissive. “Can't say it be my fault he is such a dry old bastard.”

“Not that dry.” Jim could smell the rich hot chocolate. Silver sensed his temptation, and smiled a little strange, rubbing Jim’s cold legs under the blankets. “According to Garrett, he's terrified of spiders.”

“That be so, hm?” Silver’s face lit, before he took his hands away, unbraiding his hair, deceptively casual. “What a thing to fear. Had spiders the size of rats down at the docks.”

“Hm.” Jim took a careful sip. It was delicious, melting. He visibly relaxed; as did Silver. “Did you mean what you said? About us…?”

“Oh, oh lad.” Silver replied warmly, every bit as rich and lovely as the chocolate, every bit as decadently manipulative. “Of course.” He stroked along Jim’s temples, feathering the quivering lash of Jim’s gently drooping eyelids. “For I have your word, surely?”

“Yes.” The hot chocolate was making him drunk with the encroach of slumber, the sweet and comforting heat. Jim took another long swig, earning an appreciative noise from Silver. He fumbled for his compass, releasing the clasp about his neck. As he sunk back into the bed, he pushed it into Silver’s hands. “Always.”

He could just about see the fall in Silver’s expression, a sudden unwinding of realization mingled with joy, and for a moment, guilt. But Silver closed his fingers about the compass, and without a word, clutched it to his heart, and kissed the old brass back of it.

Jim’s eyes burned. He thought of a life with Silver, space where they could be near each other, together, always. What had seemed like a fanciful dream now reigned supreme in his mind, as real as the rain and blankets and blood, and as typical of high feats of romance, he forgot the politics of the decision, and felt only the emotion, for he tried to move his lips, to speak, but exhaustion and sleep and chocolate brought only silence.

Silver clasped it around his neck, and how handsome it appeared, on his wide and bristled chest, and Jim opened his arms, and Silver chuckled and clucked and kissed him, shifting his hands beneath the blankets and making Jim buck and squirm.

But even John’s clever hands could not stem his sleepiness, and so, with Silver guiding the cup to Jim’s mouth with a smile, Jim drank deep and dropped off to sleep, the last call of his memory a low chuckle and the click of the bedroom door.

 

* * *

 

The storm had swallowed the shark. Leland had been down by the docks when he had noticed the clouds curling in a hovering maelstrom, and he had barely made it back to his museum before the cobbles were bubbling water between their uneven cracks.

The vile old room and the vile old exhibits waited as they ever did, in the dusty silences of dead things. The outside rain made the insides cold and dank and pregnant with moisture. Leland cowered in the centre of it all, sipping lukewarm tea by his hissing kettle. The shark had been an attraction, at least for a while, enough to take him down to the sea again. A sailor, he called himself, and yet he had not set foot in the water for over a decade. His skin still shivered from the memory of it, the nostalgic kiss of the tide between his toes and the enormous, bloodless carcass battering on the sand.

Poor thing. Poor dead monster. Shame he couldn’t have saved it. Could have had the beast stuffed and mounted on the opposite wall, just below the mummy. Dead things belonged with other dead things.

 _Yes,_ Leland thought. He touched a phantom weight on his neck. _The dead belong with the dead._

It wasn’t just the novelty of the beached shark. It had been the wounds. He’d known every flesh-eater in the water, and yet he had never seen anything like that, a local legend waiting to awake, a tooth torn creature in the bloodless water.

Pictures would have to do instead. As luck would have it, he’d glanced up and had seen the strange tourist from two days ago, the eccentric boy with the mismatched eyes, who’d looked at the thing with something close to pity. Luckily, _he_ had a decent camera.

The image of the pincer teeth hot in his head, he looked toward the old books opened beneath the locked glass cabinets. Rising to his feet, he crossed the tiled floor and looked down at the crudely stencilled illustrations. Victims with opened throats. Animals, sea creatures, people. All with -

The bell tinkled, pretty.

Leland uncorked his drink, throwing it to the back of his throat. He was certain he had locked that door.

“We’re closed.”

“Are ye now?” It was a man. Burly he was, square-shouldered, well dressed in black and red. Sunglasses blinded his eyes from view. Gold was a sparkle on his ears and fingers, and even laced in his braided hair. From the looks of him, it was clear to see he was of Leland’s ilk. A man of the brine, even if he had never seen any kind of sailor dressed so nice. He spread his thick lips in a carnivorous purr. “And here I was, ‘ere for a touch of culture.”

“We’re closed.” Leland checked the locks on the cabinets. “The weather’s bad. No point of us being open.”

“Bad weather drives people inside.” The man took another step in, looking idly at the exhibits. “And I thought you were a businessman.”

“I’m a folklorist.” Leland bit his tongue. He took another swig of his flask and dropped it behind his chair with a satisfying clatter. “Not a parrot. We’re closed.”

“Folklore, eh?” He smiled politely. “I like a good story myself.”

Leland eyed him cautiously.

“Fine.” He sat down heavily. “Look around if ye want. But I want you gone in twenty minutes.”

“Ah!” The man barked a high note of laughter. “How kind of you.”

It was impossible, but it was as if the stranger had carried in the rain, the turbulent press of humid storms. The air was laced tight with discomfort, carrying on the coat tails of each heavy study the stranger took to each book, each artefact, tempered by the careful gait of what he spied as a prosthetic leg. Leland, usually stoic, felt a fidget in his knees. The museum was the equivalent of crap clickbait. It did not require scrutiny.

“Didn’t I see you on a yacht this morning?” Leland queried stiffly. “With the boy.”

“Aye.” The figure straightened, stroking his immaculate beard. “That I was.”

“Heh.” Leland curled his lip. “Little young for you, isn’t he?”

“Is that jealousy I hear on your tongue, me wonders?” The man replied smoothly, slipping a cigarette from his top pocket. An itch of dislike nagged Leland’s throat. “Now, how much for…” he waved his hand absently in the direction of the glass cases. “…these trinkets, I wager?”

“Sold the only one for sale,” Leland grunted. “To your boy toy.”

“Hmmm…” The click of a lighter. The man’s lip twitched. “Isn’t he just?”

The dislike was no longer nagging. It filled his gullet and near enough made him choke.

“We have tourist books,” he said sharply. “Can’t sell my exhibits, then I'll ‘ave nothing to show.”

“That’ll do.” He took out his wallet, shuffling through a stuffing of crinkled Euro notes. Leland rose, taking out his money box beneath his chair. “Can’t see you making much of a killing, out here.”

“I live upstairs. Pay no rent, just keep this place going.” Leland kept his gaze down, unlocking the box. He didn’t want to talk, but a quick swipe of information tended to keep any stupid questions at bay. “Just local superstition.”

“Heh.” He gathered up one off the books, flicking through it idly. “I think I've heard the legends. The sky falls down if ye close, hmm?”

There it was. Beneath the trendy linens, there was a touch of the old country, brewing rough beneath those lapsing vowels. Leland smirked. He knew now he had the run of this man.

“British man, you be?”

“You too.”

“Hah! Bristol lad, born and bred.” He exchanged the money double fast, heaping an insulting amount of spare change into the broad hand. The man’s smile did not crack. “Don't ask how I ended up here, be all day.”

“Never thought to ask.” He slipped on his glasses. “I shall be seeing ye soon, make no mistake. Why…” he waved his hand. “A treasure of culture like this? Such a pull it brings, to a humble traveler like myself.”

“Humble got nothin’ to do with it,” Leland clipped the box shut. “And even with your pretty vowels, I’ll know you from hearth to hell to heaven, _Long_ John Silver.”

There was a pause. Water trickled through the dank ceilings, dewdrops cold on Leland’s cheek.

The man turned. He smiled.

“Aye.” He said. “I’ve not been called that in a while.”

“So I’m right then.” He made a sound of disgust as the cigarette, now smouldering slow, was perched between the loose smirking lips. “Wasn’t too sure.”

“Hm.” It was as if the gloss had been scrubbed off. The man who called himself Silver relaxed, filling out his clothes, and yes, there it was, the half-collapsed lean of the dockworker. With the cigarette in hand, all you had to do was strip away the fancy clothes and there he would be. He looked upon Leland for a lingering moment, seeming to swallow each feature with his eyes; Leland frowned and dropped the moneybox heavily behind his chair. “Be no point in denying it, now.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Leland spat on the ground. “We had one of your kind here mere months ago, sniffing around like a starving hound.”

“Oh?” Silver scratched his nose. “That be Bernie Flint, I see?”

“You know him.” Leland hissed at the memory. “Six feet of beard and malice be that bastard.”

Hard to forget Flint. Leland had only known him in pub gossip and local legend, back in Bristol, when he’d been a young deckhand and there had been rumors about blood in the cockle sheds. An underground ring of thugs and smugglers and Flint their personal Blackbeard. And of course, spritely Long John Silver, always a shadow behind.

“Sure I knew him.” Being outed had little impact on Long John. But where he was going to leave, he was no longer. Instead, he was burning the cigarette down to the hilt. “Wicked sense of humour, had ol’ Flinty. What be his purpose here, me wonders?”

“Fuck knows. One of his goons was in here weeks ago. Takin’ pictures.” Leland shuffled his feet. The comforting strap of his fish knife was hidden well in his wellies. “Didn’t realise they’d been comin’ back so fast. On holiday, are you?”

Silver was still watching his face, distracted.  

“Nah, not me.” He murmured sweetly. “On business, it be.”

“That what you call it now?”

“Everything is business, Mr. Hawkins.” He replied firmly. “No matter what form it takes.”

The air pricked.

* * *

 

“Goddamn it.” Hale pounded the windows and balconies like bouncing gunshots. It was dark in the hotel room, as if night had come early, but the darkness made Richard feel safer. He hushed his voice. “Garrett, look at this.”

“What?” A sleepy Garrett was nudged. “What is it?”

“Look at this.” Richard traced the hot screen with his finger, as if not believing what he saw. Long lines of files, each one titled with names, some of which he recognized. Investors, businessman, bankers, stockbrokers. At random, he clicked on the name _Hashem._

A menagerie of photos, documents, archived e-mails filled the screen. Garrett leaned in close, his wide eyes reflected in the glare.

“Jesus.” He whispered. “Blackmail. This is all blackmail.”

“Fuck.” Richard scrolled through as his stomach tightened, sick. “Goddamn, look at this stuff. It’s disgusting.”

* * *

 

“My name is not Hawkins,” he hissed.

“Oh but mark me,” he smiled, horrible. “I trust ye knew a Hawkins once, didn’t you? My God…” Upon his face, there was a sudden fondness, a nostalgia. “God, I bet his mother was fine, but the eyes, the hair. Ye do look like him, don’t you?”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” Leland snarled, but a fear was coming upon him, all rushes of tidal wrong. A memory of a raised bump beneath a straining t-shirt, tears unshed in clear almond eyes. “That not be my name!”

“Aye, but her name!” He reached inside his shirt, pulling forth a busted parcel of tin and arrow, and there was his compass, his martial gift, dangled at the end of the mobster’s fingers. It glowed in the low light and a freeze attached itself to Leland’s face, leaving him staring mad. “Ah, ol’ bonnie Sarah. Left her with a bun in the oven and livin’ above a kebab shop, didn’t ye?”

“Where…” Leland’s hand stretched toward it. “Where did ya get that, you devil?”

“Ah, mighty rude to take me gift!” It disappeared back inside his coat. “My, what a bastard you be, and that be from me, mind you. She got brain rot and left ye little lad motherless, or did you not know that?”

There was a different levity to the man now, one powered by rage. And yes, it was rage, a rising and incomprehensible sort, flashing in warnings of smiling teeth, of black clouding the whites of his eyes like a shark. 17th-century scrawls played black and white in his mind’s eye, shimmering like rainwater between his recollection and the rictus mania stood unflinching before him.

“Where…” He strained himself. “Where did you get that?”

“What a lad he be,” Silver took a step forward. “Golden hair, horizon eyes. And you _left_ …” Even with his smile, he spat the words. “…that young man with a slow rot mother and a compass.”

The boy. The boy on the boat.

_“Where?”_

“Why…” The beast put his hand over his heart. “From your son, of course.”

The glass smashed as Leland threw Silver against it, pulling all his weight. The familiar shape of the compass burned between them like a sick joke.

“ _You fucking animal_!” Leland twisted Silver’s lapels up. “You sick, demented _beast_ …”

“Easy there, Leland,” said Silver, a mockery of good-naturedness. “I wouldn’t do that, laddie.”

“How old are you, you dirty old bastard?” Leland’s fists shook. “How _dare_ you _touch_ him…”

“Done a lot more than touch him, Daddy,” Silver replied, laconic.

Leland swung for him. Silver drew back, a tsk on his lips, before he darted up, fists held to his face in the old way of the betting fights, and pain exploded between Leland’s eyes. He stumbled back, blood seeping between his fingers, tears stinging harder in his eyes.

“How?” He mumbled as Silver rubbed his thumb over his red knuckles. “How did my boy end up with the likes of you and fuckin’ finger breakin’ Flint?”

“Not Flint.” Silver’s tone had changed. It was almost business-like. “Lad never met him, and I made sure of that. Bernie Flint is dead.”

“Dea-?”

“I did it myself, matter of fact.” He said plainly, as if bored. “Nasty business, that.”

“Why?” Leland drowned his nose in his shirt. “Why be you here?”

“Jim Hawkins doesn’t know about all that,” Silver sounded almost sympathetic. “Why, I didn’t know Flint had even come here until a few weeks before. My…”

“How did you kill him?”

“Heh. Not sharin’ the details. Stick yer head back, lad. Make the blood flow back to yer brain.”

Through his fingers, Leland spied Silver take a long lick of blood off his fingers.

“My son…” He whispered. “Is he a good lad? Terrible fuckin’ choices so far, but is he good?”

“Aye.” Silver lit another cigarette. He gestured for Leland to sit down, looking all too long at his face. Fuming, embarrassed, Leland obeyed. The room finally spun to a halt. The chair beside him creaked as Silver sat. “The best. Honest, brave and true.”

Leland scoffed.

“He didn’t learn that from me,” He whispered, reaching for his flask, before he cracked, burying his face in his hands. Sarah, Sarah, oh Sarah! “My boy. Jesus Christ, my son.”

“He’s nobody’s son,” Silver’s tobacco was fresh in the air. He sucked in hard. “He be his own. Only ever been his own.”

“He’s his mother’s,” Leland searched for the gleam of the compass between the ripped lapels of Silver’s shirt. He recalled the weight of it in his palm, the tiny tick vibration of the arrow, the sun sweet on Sarah’s hair. The boy on the boat turned his head, wearing his sun-bleached genetics, armed with Sarah’s timid smile. Here, out on these European rocks, he had found a match of his own blood. (The blood from his nose now ran unchecked, dripping slow from the slope of his lip.) “And mine. Regardless of what you say, Long John.”

“Hmmm.” Silver’s dark lashes fluttered in thought. He was staring at Leland, and through the clouds of his cigarette, his eyes pulsed a soft rose. “You left him.”

“I was a coward.”

“Yes.”

“But I’ll make it right.” He wiped his nose, smearing blood across his face. Silver’s fingers began to fidget at the knee. “I’ll be a father to ‘im. A guide, maybe. To stop seeing ‘im ending up with the likes of you. No offence, Long John.”

“None took. A reasonable remark, all things considered.”

Leland held out his shirt, grimacing at the stains. Beside him, there was a slow and careful stirring.

“You do look so like him,” Silver continued, warmly. Leland couldn’t see his face through the plumes. Just two burning irises, like cigarette butts left to wither in an ashtray. The rain hammered on the roof, screaming across the tiles. Horror punched Leland’s chest, for the thing was smiling, smiling so wide, teeth touching the lobes of its ears. “It be a shame. But you weren’t much of a father. Me thinks it’s best for ‘im that you never existed at all.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

A boom of thunder shook Jim awake. The bedroom was illuminated in pearl whites, cracking light on the dim shapes of the furniture. Groaning, he turned on his side, lifting his arm to shield his eyes, before the raw ache of his torso sent him hissing, curling back into himself.

He’d been dreaming of Polaris, of the star crested in the sky, and about it swam silver tipped sharks, teeth poked from their broad, white mouths. Beneath and above them, figures drifted with the eerie harmony of the drowned, limbs extended and hair wafting in all directions.

Groggy, the remnants of the heavy dream still swaying beneath his eyelids, Jim turned and saw tucked beneath the dresser the wink of his skull talisman. Already missing his compass, Jim took it and hid it in the grove of his palm, holding it tight against his chest. Sleep descended too fast.

This time, there were no sharks. 

 


	6. The Unlucky Mr Hashem

“So what can we do?” The night had finally come. In Richard’s case, he thought it had come too quickly. The storm and darkness had blighted the early afternoon in the twilight, and now the darkness had arrived, it came with no moon. The computer was still open, the incriminating files multiplied on different drives and e-mail providers, the boys still huddled together like children. “What can we do, with all this?”

“We have to show Smollett.” Garrett said. It should have been encouraging, but even Garrett was sobered by what they had found. Some of the truths had been embarrassing. Some had been evil. They knew the men on the list, had shaken hands and broken bread with most of them. “Take the computer. Get up the files. But…” He paused. “Silver’s not stupid. If Jerry’s response to you was anything to go by, he must have a whiff of something.”

“Yeah.” Richard picked the logo of his t-shirt, rolling the cheap print between his fingernails. The unspoken matter sat between them. Richard bared his teeth and swore. “But what about the other thing? What have you read? Is it possible?”

Garrett looked at him, unnervingly intense, and Richard realised that he was judging his distress, whether he could take it, and irritation and terror made him snap.

“God’s sake, Garrett!” He hissed. “Tell me. I’m not made of glass.”

“Will you be sick again?”

“Me being sick will not change the truth, will it?” Richard pulled in closer, content to set aside the computer of current nightmares. “You’ve got the books. I’ve done the digital, you do the physical. What do you know about…those things?”

“I know they came from the sea.”

“Yeah, the curator said that.”

“They masqueraded as normal humans.” Garrett turned the pages of his book. It was crudely made, old stock from the 80s, ancient words on thin printed paper. Richard hadn’t had the chance to have a proper look at it. On the front was the picture of the gargoyle outside Jim’s window. “They came from the sea, initially. Pirates, they think now, but not to plunder, but to smuggle and trade. They spoke of a confrontation they had with a strange creature on one of the Caribbean outposts, and from that battle, they had amassed beautiful jewels and gold and could live as wealthy men.”

“Cursed Aztec treasure?” Richard chuckled weakly. “Sounds like a bad movie.”

“But then the disappearances started. Dogs, cats, small animals. Soon it transitioned to cattle, large sea mammals…” Garrett paused, sucking hard on his full lower lip. Richard snapped his head up.

“The shark,” He murmured, twisting the blankets around his fists. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and darted from the bed to the open door of the bathroom, gagging into the toilet.

Garrett nodded, slowly, and if implored by a terrible will, continued.

“But it appeared that the short-term satisfaction of animal kills did not satisfy. The hunger became deeper. The sailors, once so benign, began to change. They turned to human…”

Washing his face in the sink, Richard lifted his head to peer in the mirror, pulling down his eyelids. In the reflection, he could see Garrett, and the half-open window and a swell of ragged breathing black swollen against it, a large green eye fixed on them both.

Richard did not scream. He couldn’t. Instead, he emitted a thin, airless sound, just enough for Garrett to lift his head and share his witness in the mirror.

Garrett sprang off the bed, swearing, thrusting his fist out, and as Richard dropped behind the door, hugging his knees, he saw the ruby spark of Garrett’s ring, and the high shriek of wind rushing through the room, chilling all and everything.

“It’s gone.” Garrett’s voice sounded remarkably clear. “Whatever it is, it’s gone.”

“Shut the window!” Richard had his hands over his ears, his eyes squeezed shut. “Jesus Christ shut the fucking window!”

* * *

 

Arrow had wished for rain, once upon a time. But the sun had been closed away by the clouds, and whatever pride he had felt at the fact was drowned by the monsoon. That night he had taken to bed early, noting with a frown the absence of the young boys at dinner, and most worryingly, Jim. He had not seen Hawkins for several days, not since the warning on the veranda on the day of Silver’s return, and Abe had been mute on the subject.

He sat by his desk in his pyjamas, pouring over the company files, searching for the stitch-ups of data that could rationalise his suspicions towards Silver. He had no time to worry about Jim, not now. If he could find evidence for Silver’s wrongdoing, that would be enough.

The thunder rolled. Arrow leant back, removed his reading glasses, and rubbed the sore bridge of his nose. The lamps spluttered, the dim _dink_ of the dying flare in the ceiling bulb. Arrow peered up it, irritated. Did he truly have to call the electrician out at this hour?

Arrow scowled, absently rubbing his palm. In the past hour, an itch had arisen on his skin, on the same hand that had smarted Silver’s cheek. Arrow thought of it with a smug shame. It had been a childish act, he was certain, but not unjustified.

The skin _itched._

Arrow scratched absently, looking over his books. The numbers were tight, if uneven. Silver could cover his tracks like a seasoned criminal. Arrow sighed, discontented, before he jolted suddenly, for his skin was pinking, tearing beneath his nail, and poking through the raised bump of his wound was a long, thin, black leg.

The table turned. Reports fluttered like paper. Arrow hit the opposite wall, shaking his hand like a wild thing, a wail clawing out of his throat.

The skin on his palm was smooth and clean. The lights hummed stably above.

Arrow stood still, waiting for the heave of his breast to cease. Slowly, he approached the papers, stacking them up, cold sweat on his brow.

He’d done enough tonight.

 

* * *

 

Jim woke with a start.

The balcony doors were rattling open, the sheer curtains flying in the storm, the rain hammering the fine wood floor. Thunder struck the turbulent sea. Jim, now frighteningly awake, rose quickly, letting the skull drop from his palm into the blankets. He’d forgotten he was naked, forgetting he was wounded, even, as raindrops flew across his skin as he reached for the swinging doors.

**“Leave it, lad.”**

Slumped in the chair opposite, spread legs and smile, was Silver, dripping water. Jim drew calmly back toward the bed, even as he felt a tautness in his throat, in his body.

“I like it,” He continued, and rose. He swayed toward Jim, as if mildly drunk, but his eyes were huge and alert in his head, even beneath the bow of his eyelids. He seemed to grow, to glow, in the moonless night, standing just behind the waving curtains, his lips stretching further up. “Come ‘ere, lad.”

He meant to open his mouth, to speak. To ask what was happening. The storm thickened and clashed outside, and Silver’s skin bore the witness of it, for it was freezing cold as if touched by dead things, and why had Jim had such a thought?

He was close enough now for his chest to touch Silver’s. He didn’t know how he looked, gazing up at Silver, for he himself could not grab his drifting mood, for he felt as if he was in a dream, still, if sharks still swam so hauntingly slow in the skies.

Silver dipped his head, and kissed his neck, finding the map of his previous toothed kisses and revisiting each one. There was no a longer a twitch of nerves as breath and lips met the marks, but something else entirely; it was _visceral._

“Ah!” Jim struggled slightly, scratching at his back. Silver sucked harder, and Jim’s legs gave out. “Ah! _Ah!”_

“Hmmm…” Silver hummed smugly, turning his lips to Jim’s ear. “You like that, Jim-Lad?”

Jim bunched Silver’s shirt in his fist. Shame rinsed his lower stomach, his hardness undeniable.

“What are you doing to me?” Jim whispered. Silver nipped beneath his ear.

“Barely begun, my lad.”

Jim was thrown. He was certain he was, because his back was on the bed, even if his arms had never left Silver’s, had only felt the pressure of air as he passed through. Silver trailed down Jim’s stomach, a lave of breath between his legs, and –

“John!” Jim bucked, suddenly too sensitive, his skin prickling from his neck to his nipples, each cell alive and singing. The pleasure was there, but the naturalism of it wasn’t, and that alone was terrifying. _“John!”_

“Yes?” Silver perked up his head, wiping his mouth. He smiled. “Let me give you a little lesson in this, lad.”

It wasn’t like Jim’s attempt on the boat, each ungainly detail of it. Silver slickly took him down, a technique that spoke of experience, and so intensely and judiciously he worked his tongue Jim was near in tears, groping at the sheets, feeling the build creep in his belly and boil up his legs.

“Hmmm…” Silver released him. Jim flung his hand over his eyes, breathing hard, only to feel the long weight of Silver on him, the thick working hand sliding gentle between his thighs. “Look at me, Jim.”

Jim slid his hand from his face. Silver kissed him, lightly, and Jim, despite throbbing in his sight and body, reciprocated.

Silver jerked him hard. Jim cried out; Silver bit it back with his teeth, tearing Jim’s lower lip with his canines, blood a warmth between their mouths. Jim came, violently, lightning between them. His flesh buzzed all over, his hands searching for Silver, even as blood dribbled down his chin. Silver followed it, kissing it away. He reared up, proud, and tore off his shirt, unzipping himself and flinging away his belt.

“Can’t…” Jim mumbled. He was dreaming. He had to be. Silver spread his legs, appearing huge above him, the muscle of dock and toil a story in his skin, but beneath that was something else. Silver rolled his shoulders, cracks of bone audible to Jim’s ears, and his eyes….

 “Look at ye,” Silver purred. He stroked Jim’s face, cradling his cheek. Jim sweated and gasped, rocking on Silver’s oiled fingers. “Look at my Jim.”

Something was different. Silver was different. But how was he? Here, he appeared, the broad and powerful John Silver, and Jim wondered if he truly was dreaming…

Outside, the storm lashed, reaching in toward the figures on the bed. Silver entered Jim harshly, ramming him back against the headboard like an animal. Jim thrashed back, clawing at Silver’s shoulders, drawing blood of his own, anger a hot and healthy replacement for his passive, wilting confusion.

Silver rumbled in approval at Jim’s hard response, before he lowered his head once more, back into the crane of Jim’s neck, and like that, Jim went to pieces.

“God!” He screamed. “God damn it, Silver! _Silver!”_

“Louder,” Silver replied softly, almost sing-song. To hear him so composed was enough to send Jim murderous, but Silver sucked and thrust and sent Jim up like a siren. “Louder, Jim-Lad.”

Silver rolled him in the sheets, twisting Jim’s face in the bed, his hands closing tight over Jim’s fine hair. Jim felt the pull, the agony, the bubbling in his loins. But he couldn’t finish. The pleasure was strung out like an endless line, and Silver, proud Silver, could only look down at Jim’s flushing, confused face with a half-moon grin.

Jim was on Silver’s lap, on his back, on his front. Silver was relentless, the wind and rain behind him, the storm a match for the pleasurable thunder in Jim’s body.

“W-What’s happening?” Jim choked out. Silver had his neck, his hands and hips altering Jim unintelligible. Jim fought through the haze. “Why can’t I…why can’t I…!”

He was trying not to panic. His body was elevated, his mind was shot, but his reason toughened through, seizing his lungs into tight, short breaths. All mischief fled Silver’s face.

“Easy, lad.” There he was, back again, kissing Jim’s soaked brow. He wasn’t slowing. Jim’s brain was affected, he was certain, for the whites of Silver’s eyes were weaving black about his burst irises, like tea bags streaking hot water. “Nearly there, now.”

He turned his head, kissed Jim’s thigh, bit clean through and _chewed._

Just like that, as if a knot had been pulled free, Jim came. Warmth splattered his stomach and sheets, and Silver must have followed, for heat filled Jim, and the world quaked and shook and pleasure and pained merged like two interlocked hands.

 

* * *

 

Silver slept soundly, the sort of sleep of a full belly and sex. On his face, there was no gauntness, no pale gleam, no shade of ill. The vigour that had been growing over the past few days had manifested in full. He appeared younger and healthier than in the months Jim had known him. He slumbered with a smile, his arm locked around Jim, the slide of their bodies sweating the sheets. The storm had calmed, at least for now, rain pattering through the open balcony doors. The wind had changed northwards, and as Jim slipped from under Silver, he padded to the doors and quietly closed them.

The silence that followed was deafening. Jim, wide awake, turned back to the bed, the shape of Silver discomfortingly still. He stood, counting the seconds, dragging his gaze around the room with the nerve of a restless child. Finally, he spied the television, relatively unused during their holiday. Making sure the volume was muted, Jim sat down on the chair, still damp from Silver (it hadn’t been a dream, after all) and turned it on.

Static. It weaved across the screen, visual pins and needles. Eventually, a picture emerged of an early 80s animation, a unicorn and a wizard and a harpy, which Jim was certain would have been clumsily dubbed, but it was light and action and something else minus the dark and the storm.

Jim was cold. The dried sweat had left his body clammy, the salt from their previous sail a brine taste in his mouth. Jim hugged himself, pulling his knees up to his chin, biting his thumbnail. There was a sudden stick of discomfort, throbbing up his leg and down again.

It wasn’t just an ache. It was a definite pain, flaring beneath the skin, a stinging web of bruises. As a child, Jim had been bitten by an adder. Intense agony had followed, with swelling and redness, the pincer fangs scarring his heel with two tiny neat holes.

He didn’t know why he thought of it, only that the pain was similar, and the more he thought on it, the more it began to come alive. Jim turned his leg toward the television, hissing as he pressed his bow fingers to the top of his inner thigh.

Indeed, there was a bite there, two clear punctures. But that wasn’t all. The screen flickered, and Jim struggled to see, but as he circled his fingers around the tender area, he could feel other lesions, varying in sizes, circled about the centre bite like a pattern in a cornfield.

Silver gave a short, content sigh, and turned over.

Jim slowly put his leg down. The cartoon characters nattered at each other. A plain woman carried a pirate cat in her arms.

It was a long journey, the tread from the chair and the television to the bed. The darting shades of the television played strangely over Silver’s face. Jim bent over him, Silver still and snoring on his back, and gently inserted his fingers between Silver’s lips, easing his mouth open.

The television picture stumbled, from images to a shearing white static.

Silver’s teeth were there, clean and white, no hint of him as a lifetime smoker. There was the tongue, the throat, the red gums.

Beneath the tall, tombstone teeth, there were thin spikes of fang, poked along from his canines to his molars, half retracted. Shaking, Jim idly touched one, and blood bloomed on his finger.

Jim pulled back, heart pounding in his ears. Silver sniffed, made a short, confused noise, and turned on his side.

Jim didn’t know how he found his jeans, his t-shirt, and how he did so silently. Packed into his discarded bag was a rain mac that belonged to Garrett. Jim slipped it over his shoulders, pulling the cords tight on the hood. Then, without a word, he disappeared through the door.

 

* * *

 

_Knock._

Arrow swore.

Grumbling at his shot nerves (and the uncharacteristic dirt on his tongue) he stacked the reports, filing them back into their folders.

“Yes, what is it?”

There was a silence.

Followed by _more_ errant knocking.

Arrow sighed at the bad manners.

“I’m coming, confound it!”

Feeling less than professional in his blue silk pyjamas and beige slippers, he unlocked the door.

 _“Good God!”_ Arrow found his arms full of Joseph Richard Noland Hashem, evening dress in disarray. “Mr Hashem, what is the meaning of this?”

“Is it safe?” Hashem didn't sound like himself. In fact, he sounded like a child, crouching beneath bedclothes. “Are you alone? Is anyone in here with you?”

The very idea that somebody would assume he would have someone in his room, at this time of night, with the intimacy of slippers and night clothes, was enough to give Arrow a minor aneurysm. He slapped Hashem’s hands away, moving past him to close the door.

“No, Joseph,” he said wearily. He pulled the latch across and turned back to his colleague, who was practically gibbering. “You weren’t at the meetings. I wasn't aware you were even invited on this particular trip.”

“I wasn't.” Hashem sat at the end of the bed, his manicured nails pawing at his trousers. Arrow’s lip curled a little. “I-I had to come out here. He demanded it.”

“What, Smollett?” Arrow began to boil the kettle. “He couldn't demand of a kitten, let alone yourself.”

“Not Smollett.” Hashem swallowed. “Silver.”

A teaspoon clattered, tiny pots of milk splattering on the tray. Arrow rotated slowly, one eye drilled on Hashem.

“Silver?” He folded his arms, filling the room with his demand. “What has this got to do with that son of a - _ahem_. That man.”

“He…” Hashem rolled his anguish in his jaw, eyes blotted black from lack of sleep. Despite his triumph, Arrow felt a prick of pity. “Have you ever wondered how he does it? How he manages us all like little dolls in his own personal playhouse?”

Arrow took a seat. As he did, he discreetly reached for his Dictaphone, his thumb pressed on the _record_.

“Go on.”

“He’s a blackmailer.” Hashem uncorked a flask from his coat and drank. Arrow’s lip curled further. “He uses his contacts, his minions, whatever it is, I have no idea. He collects information – sensitive, _private_ information - and threatens us if we do not agree to his terms. He has all your investors in his back pocket, Arrow! He's a thief, a liar - and worst of all, a thug!”

“A thug?” Arrow leant forward, secretly turning the speaker closer to the desk. “Whatever do you mean?”

“He has his own personal Mafia. Dare I say, he _is_ his own personal Mafia! He is a dangerous man to know. People go missing, funds vanish from accounts, and no one can touch him.” He struck his fists against the bed. “He has me now, Joseph. Personal family matters held against me like invisible knives. He may make himself appear respectable, but oh, beneath all that is a common bastard son of a docking **_whore_**!”

“Enough.” Arrow stood up. “Do you have any evidence?”

“You've met him. You see right through him, Sam. You're the only person I can depend on to put this right.”

Arrow stared at him for a moment.

“I believe you.” He finally said, and Hashem’s face crumbled in relief. “But Silver is devious. We need more than your word. We require a plan. Confrontation does nothing to a man like that. We have to smother every hole he’ll try to wiggle through.”

“I have…” Hashem pulled from his satchel a large slim folder. “Here. These are his - his emails. And accounting records. You’ll see…just look at them, you’ll see…”

“Very well.” Arrow handled the folder as if it contained gold dust. Hashem, on the other hand, was disturbingly alive and clogging the serenity Arrow required for his artful takedown. “But let me look it over first, I am credited as thorough. Give yourself a night to recover.” He paused. “You look terrible.”

The folder and Arrow were seized.

“You won’t tell him, will you?” He breathed, desperate. “You won’t let him know it was me? It would be the end of me, I know it!”

Arrow took his wrists, powerfully putting them down.

“Get. Some. Rest.” He declared. “You have done enough. I will take care of this.”

“You know he's a liar,” jabbered Hashem. “Whatever horrors he makes up, you know them to be lies, yes!”

Something about that caught Arrow off guard. He peered at the dishevelled man, those mad sleepless eyes, and nodded, slowly,

“I will keep that in mind.” He said, trying to be gentle. “Go to bed, Joseph.”

Finally, with coaxing and tears, he guided Hashem to the door, and with a final promise of justice, Hashem left, swaying absently down the hall, a shadow of the proud Eton Boy Arrow could barely tolerate.

Clicking the stop button on his recorder, Arrow looked curiously at the folder. A shape moved across the room, darting across his bed, and Arrow snapped his head up, his attention on the large, empty window.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The rain trickled down Jim’s face, an endless procession of wet. The storm had died down, enough for him to walk in the open without becoming soaked. Jim fussed the skull necklace, wiggling it between his fingers.

He knew where he was going. The boards of the driftwood path were soddening, slippery, but as soon as Jim placed his foot on it, he felt a peace fall on him. The rain did not hammer so heavily. The crashing sea dulled.

“Back again?” He hadn’t seen her. She moved out of the dark. Water trickled between the manes of her hanging grey hair, her cataract eyes mooning in the night. The dog sat dutifully between her legs.

“Hello,” Jim said quietly. He did not know what else to say. “I don’t think I saw a storm this bad.”

“Gonna get worse.” Her accent cracked in her throat. She shuffled closer, and Jim idly wondered how she managed to move, how ancient she seemed as if she was made from leather and twine, held together by a frayed hope. “Now it be gone, it gonna get worse.”

“What is gone?” Jim replied politely. The dog whined and burrowed in her skirts.

“The Crypt.” She mumbled toothlessly. “That which carried our past. Gone, dead.”

Jim stared at her for a moment.

“Wait!” He declared empathically. “The City of Gargoyles? It’s closed?”

She scoffed.

“No.” Her crinkled hands yanked down her hood. Her tongue slapped her lips in a wail. “It _dead.”_

The wind off the sea froze Jim’s cheeks. He shuddered. From a distance, he heard a heavy splash, as if something had been clumsily chucked into the churning water.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“The storm.” She raised her hand to the sky. “The long night. The sea. You wear that…” She pointed a crooked finger at the necklace. “And you will survive, at least.”

On the sand, there was the crunch of footsteps.

The little dog’s muzzle began to shiver, a warning growl. The old woman folded herself up, making herself as little as possible.

**“Jim?”**

“Jerry?” Jim turned, only to see Jerry’s shape growing in the dark, his hair stuck to his forehead, his t-shirt a second skin on his body.

“Jim, what the hell?” Jerry’s voice was surprisingly clear. As if woken from a trance, Jim shook his head. He became aware he was out past midnight, the night was murky and bitter, and the rain was making his throat sore, tight. “You courtin’ a cold, lad?”

“I could well be.” Jim rubbed his head, nibbling his lip. “What are you doing out, anyway?”

“Same could be said for you,” Jerry was very close, suddenly, just short of the path. “My god, if ye get sick, Silver will kill me. Be a gent and get back now, yeah?”

“Why would Silver blame you for what I do?”

“Blamed me for less before.” Jerry was smiling. Not at Jim, not exactly, but at the bandage tight on his arm. It was an unusual smile, lantern bright and very, very big. “You hurt yourself, Jim?”

“A bulb exploded.” Jim felt his trainers skid on the boards. The driftwood appeared to thrum beneath his soles, rising a sense of warning like steam. Jim shifted, clearing his throat. “Silver saw to it.”

“Did he now? Ol’ John be no nurse, mark me.”

“He was alright.”

“Heh.”

Jim braved a glance behind him. The old lady and her dog were nowhere to be seen.

“I better get back.” Jim took a step to the edge of the driftwood path. Jerry’s face lit up, his smile widening, almost to the tips of his gums.

Jim waited.

Jerry didn’t move.

“Why are you out, Mr Calico?”

“No great reason, lad. Fancied a healthy fuck, to be honest, be there no fine boys nor girls about. No such luck. Place is full of fuckin’ puritans, more or like.”

That wasn’t a fact Jim was keen to know.

“Great.” Jim swallowed. He nudged his foot a centimetre further. Jerry’s fingers twitched. For a long moment, Jim stilled, and then, he reached for his necklace and pulled it free onto his neck.

An ear-splitting kettle hiss. The thing threw up its hands, moonlight shining through long thin tipped fingernails, a twist of face and eyes, inhuman.

Jim stumbled back, wheezing silently, his fist held powerfully over the skull.

 “Oh, _oh lad_!” It was Jerry. Just Jerry, fighting his voice above the gale, his hair flying about his face. “What an ugly piece of jewellery. Should throw that shit to Oxfam.”

The world was shaking. Jim was off the path, pedalling back. He had seen something old, something horrible, something ageless, from a different time, a different place. Not something from a world with televisions and satellites and central heating.

“Goodnight, Mr Calico,” he called and fled.

* * *

 

The entrance to the hotel had all the lights out; the cause, Jim deduced, was the storm. The high marble archways were gloomy, collecting darkness in full swarms that blacked out each hallway. There was no staff. Jim glanced casually at the elevator, then remembered the power, and with a heavy heart, took to the endless flights of stairs.

Jim had no fear of shadows, not now, not on the eve of his twentieth birthday, but he dreaded the slow tread to his floor. The corridor was silent, the stairs difficult to feel underfoot, each landing carrying a new mental spectre folded away in the corners. The soft, carpeted floors bit away from any sound of his footsteps, and so Jim felt weightless as if himself was a ghost,as if he was still in his dream. It reminded him of the stairs in the hospital, carpeted to not disturb the patients, his little feet winding up and down, desperate to hide from the social worker, coming to collect him from the visit, the visit that would be his final one, the...

_For fuck's sake, stop it!_

Jim found his floor. Not Silver's. His, with his gargoyle and his neglected single room, untouched since the second night.

Jim, grateful to leave the staircases, fumbled in his pocket for his key card. The blackness of the hotel pressed on his back, not eager to release him, or so it appeared in his brain. The beep of the scanner came too slow, and Jim released his breath, pulling down the handle and letting himself in.

A little dog trotted between his legs. The eyes were big and white and blind, although they peered up at him none the less.

Jim stared at the creature, stupid.

"Stray?"

The dog went stiff. Then, like a marionette, the jaw unfastened, and from its mouth came a low, gurgling, male scream.

The door banged. Jim was through it, running like a mad thing. His heart raced, and his throat was dry and hard from the effort, and it took him a moment to realise his cheeks were wet.

He ran straight into Garrett.

And it was Garrett, warm human Garrett, his arms coming up in shock, and Jim clung to him like a kid, gripping his jacket tight.

"Jim?" Richard’s voice was harshly concerned. "Jim, where the fuck you been?"

"It's okay, Jim." Garrett was hugging him back, rocking him to and fro. "It's okay, we're here. You're okay."

The lights came back on, flickering up and down the corridors. The dark was massaged from each corner, flittering away like bad dreams. Jim released Garrett, taking a step away, even if their hands lingered on each other.

* * *

 

They put Jim to bed, as if they were children again.

Garrett was laid beside him, his hand lingering just shy of Jim's sleeping face. Garrett was propped up on his couch, sleep an alien visitor.

Garrett spoke gently, a protectiveness in his tone. Richard crossed his arms and huddled further down, blowing his hair off his face.

“Should we tell him?”

Richard spied the earring, discreet within the folds of Jim’s hair.

“No.” He said lowly. “Not yet.”

* * *

 

It was daylight, bland and grey and brushed with rainfall. Jim stared at the ceiling, at the baseless white, and turned on his side. Garrett was beside him, his hand a tangle in his dreadlocks, his other loosely clasped in Jim’s own. Jim lay still, observing his parted mouth and the quiver of his eyelids as he slept. Glimmering on his finger was the ring.

A snore from the couch alerted him to Richard, splayed out on the cushions. Jim looked between his two friends, his pseudo brothers, his self-made family. Without a word, he slipped off the bed, mourning the phantom heat of Garrett’s hand on his, and looked idily toward the calendar.

Monday.

 _Conference Dinner_ was scrawled in big red letters.

Jim rubbed his hands over his face, groaning.

 

* * *

 

The television was switched off. The bed and sheets had been pulled tight.

John was stood by the mirror, clean and human and arranging his tie. Jim let the door close slowly behind him.

“There be my mysterious boy,” he said curtly, flattening out his shirt in the mirror. “Slips out my arms and into the night.”

“Did Jerry tell you that?”

Silver checked his teeth in the mirror.

“Jerry tell me what, lad?”

Jim frowned.

“Never mind.”

Today was the conference. What kind and what about, Jim didn’t know, and the blandness of the day inspired in him an equally bland anxiety, and he hurried to Silver’s desk, where the briefing was laid out. It was almost a relief over nightmares and -

The dog screamed from the corner of the room, hidden out of sight of the smudged sunshine.

The sky growled and began to spit.

Jim gasped silently, groping his neck for his talisman. It seemed to tighten at the jugular.

“Lad?” Silver’s chuckle faded. “My lad, what be ailing ye?”

“I'm…uh…” Jim massaged his temples. There was no dog. “I'm…there was a…”

He gestured to the empty corner.

“Jim?” Silver’s hand was on his shoulder. His tone lowered, serious, “Speak to me, lad.”

Jim’s neck agonized. He scratched at it, rolling his shoulders. Silver took his cheek in his palm, holding Jim’s face level with his. At his touch, the prickling increased, as if agitated by his fingertips.

“Why, lad.” He said slowly. “You look pale as skimmed milk.”

“Feel sick.” He replied weakly, brushing past Silver. “My neck is killing me.”

“It be your eyes that be full of sickness, lad.” Silver answered. “Why, you glarin’ at floatin’ dust all of a sudden?”

Jim felt irritated, or would feel irritated at any other time, but to consider that all the wrong and the storms and the nightmares were attached to the strings on Silver’s shoes, well, it seemed mad.  Maybe he was mad. Overworked. Gone a little crazy in love. But to see Silver standing there, bemused with a trace of worry, as normal as ever.

“I'm overtired.” He lied. “I think I'm seeing things, is all.”

“Hm.” Silver clicked his tongue, edging close, slowly unbuttoning Jim’s shirt. “I knew a boy back at the docks. Scratched his hand on some rusty metal, said he saw pixies eatin’ the sails.”

“Silver…” Jim stilled his hands. “The conference. It’s in less than an hour.”

“I would like a look at your neck, lad.” He smiled. His teeth were square and handsome. “See if you have an infection setting in.”

The queasy memory of breath on his maimed skin tingled Jim with uncertainty, a shameful anticipation. Silver turned his head, resting lips on Jim’s chin, his jaw, shifting to the space between Jim’s collar and neck. It was an odd behaviour, tender but testing. Jim’s resistance failed at the intimacy.

“You're alright, lad.” He whispered as he kissed the beginning of the bite. “John has you.”

Jim faltered.

The lips touched the talisman’s chain.

There was a sound. A tearing, tortured sound. Jim grabbed his shirt and pulled it together.

Silver was back against the mirror, holding his finger to his lip. Blood bubbled black against his fingernail. He sucked his finger, smearing blood over the dip of his mouth.

It was like he had woken from a dream.

“Lad. Oh, lad.” Silver’s gaze was soft, dangerous. “That be a nasty trick.”

“What kind of trick?” Jim undid the knot, pulling the skull free. On the cord was a burst of blood, as if it singed upon contact. For Jim, it was cool to the touch. “What did you do?”

Silver looked at him, hard.

Jim looked back, speechless.

Silver slid his finger out with an audible _pop._

“Oh…” He relaxed. “Oh, lad. I caught my lip on the clasp.”

“It doesn’t have a clasp.” Jim palmed his neck. The pain was back. Silver’s brief attentions had made it, by some strange effect, bearable, even pleasurable.  “What do you mean, a trick?”

“I say, lad, to wear somethin’ so grotesque.” Silver bit back. “My, what kind of tourist tat is that for a professional young man to wear, I say?”

Jim held it up.

“You don’t like it?”

“Makes me feel ill.” At that, a bead of sweat caught on Silver’s brow and he turned away, sneering. “I wouldn’t wear such a thing to the conference, Jim. Speakin’ of which, I think the fish wife Arrow be expecting us.”

Jim nodded, casually. With Silver’s back turned, he slipped it back inside his collar, buttoning himself up, and returned to examining the itinerary, feeding the list of names into his brain. No surprise, the meeting had a large portion dedicated to catering. Explained the presence of Silver and his men, certainly. No mention of Hashem. The deal Silver closed must have been outside this arrangement. Jim clicked the folder shut, turning back to the door.

Silver’s huge, wounded eyes loomed at him.

“Jesus!” Jim dropped the folders, holding his head. Silver breathed hard, trying to smile, but the blood dripped freely from his mouth. The blister had opened further. Silver wiped his mouth with his broad hand. “What’s the matter?”

“I hate it, lad.” Silver said, hoarsely. “I hate it.”

“It’s a…” Jim shook his head. “Seriously? Are you joking?”

Silver grasped his face, bringing his bloodied lips to Jim’s. In the space between their breaths, he whispered.

“Please.”

Jim fumbled for the tie. The skull vibrated, as if in warning.

Jim yanked it free and slammed it on the desk.

Silver dropped his shoulders, fluttering his eyes open to kiss Jim’s immobile mouth. Jim stood still, his hand over the skull, his mind hurrying for reason, but Silver’s lips found his neck, and like that, kissed the skin where the scar raised like delicate viens.

 

* * *

 

Richard despised the idea of returning to the gargoyle shop. He disliked the dead things, the low ceilings, the odour of old dust. But that morning, with Jim gone to the conference, Garrett had left the room without a word, and Richard, tugging up his jeans and running his hands through his unwashed hair, had ran after, grumbling.

The streets were wet and empty. The humidity promised rain.

“You know, If I wanted this weather,” Richard pulled the cords of his hoodie tight. “I would have stayed in Bristol.”

Garrett strolled through the damp. His ring flashed as he went. It was as if the rain stood a full foot away from him. Richard hugged himself and followed closer.

“I've got a bad feeling.” Uncharacteristically grave, Garrett took Richard’s wrist. “I don’t know, I think something is very wrong.”

“What tipped you off?” Richard huddled closer. He prayed Garrett wouldn't notice. “The faces pushing through the veil? The evil hard drive? The big bloody eyeball at the window?”

The stairwell was there, as was the ancient door. The miniature gargoyle looked mournfully on.

“It's locked.” Richard rattled the door. “Hello! Mr…uh, are you there?”

“That's weird.” Garrett fumbled through his book. “According to local folklore, this place must never be closed. It's practically law.”

“Why?”

“They said that with the closing of this place…” Garrett looked up at the lonely stone face. “That evil has infected the community.”

Richard swallowed.

“Help me…” he began to slam his shoulder against the rotten door. “..,to get this bugger open, okay?”

Garrett lined himself against it, ready to push, but as his ring hand brushed the handle, the door rattled and groaned and creaked open.

Richard took a deliberate step behind Garrett.

“I don’t like this.”

“You can stay here, if you like,” Garrett said, without a touch of judgement. “I can look.”

“I’m not leaving you alone!” Richard declared, with more than a heterosexual touch of passion, and blushed as Garrett turned to smile at him. “I’ll bite my appendix and bear it, okay?”

“Weird turn of phrase.”

“We’ve both weird, now move.”

* * *

 

The conference was laid out in the ballroom, airy and light with wicker chairs and white tablecloths, flowers arranged in exotic waterfalls across the room. The torrid sky, black with cloud cover, disturbed the idyllic scene through the long, arched windows.

“What weather,” Benjamina dazzled in a silver confection of a dress that sloped off her wide plumb shoulders, her golden hair whirled up in white roses. “To think. I expected tropics.”

“Are you enjoying the holiday, Miss Smollett?” Jim enquired politely, glad to be hidden in the sidelines. The early afternoon that had been spent in dry conversations, picking over his speech to deliver the most appropriate answers. Before, all meetings had been casual. This, well, this was the white shirt and black-tie occasions he dreaded. Garrett and Richard, whose company he’d prayed for, were absent.

“Enjoying? Yes.” She waved her hand. “Smollett and your friends are such darlings. Just a shame about the weather. And this old country club nonsense. Hardly an extravaganza, is it? It’s so dry in here.” She pulled at her glove with her sharp teeth. Jim’s scar itched. “Makes a spinster look slippery.”

Jim choked.

A heckle of laughter broke the sobriety. Silver, surrounded by smiles – some tight, a few indulgent, many admiring – was holding court in the main body of the ballroom. He was smoking indiscriminately. The tired bellhop was deliberately avoiding Arrow’s glare.

Jim glanced over, irritated. A sensuous luxe of smoke departed Silver’s mouth, the nicotine claw of it singeing Jim’s senses, and Silver, catching his eye, drew up his lips and winked.

“Problem, Jim?” Benjamina touched his shoulder. Jim turned back to her, hoping his cheeks were relatively bloodless.

“No.” He said, quickly. “Nothing at all. Just ran out of things to talk about.”

“Hm.” Benjamina followed his line of sight, and giggled, acidic. “Yes. Charming, isn’t he? Such a wolf. Has all the little sheep herding right into his jaws.”

“Um…” Jim wasn’t sure what to think. “Miss Smollett?”

“Never mind me, dear. I’m a bitter bitch.” She sat, smoothing out her skirts. She clicked open her purse. “Sit with me, Jim. And call me Mina.”

“Bitter about what?” Jim sat. She smiled at that and smoothed out his hair. There was something decidedly maternal in it.

“Old things. Doesn’t matter now, I’m married.” She fretted his tie. Jim let her do it. “Darling, you do know how Smolley adores you?”

Blood of a different kind bloomed on Jim’s cheeks.

“Mi – Mina. Yes. I think so.”

“He loves you terribly,” She continued, unhesitating. “And he doesn’t know how to show it, so _I’m_ telling you. If there’s any problem, anything at all, now matter how embarrassed or ashamed you feel, you can tell him. He’s soft and silly but he’ll listen. He won’t judge. He didn’t judge me, you know…” She softened, taking Jim’s hand. “…so you mustn’t fear it. Or him. He’s not trying to replace anyone. He just wants to be there for you, and…”

She took a quick, sharp breath.

“He loved your mother, Jim,” she said quietly. “And he loves you. Don’t be afraid of that. Now…” She patted his hand and shook out her hair. “Be a dear and fetch us some Champagne? I need a drink.”

Jim stood up, and looked down at her, and between them, there was a carry of silence, before Jim nodded.

“Yes, I think so.” He smiled, slightly, his chest strange and light, and beneath her make-up, he saw a sweet, aged bloom in her, a relief. “Mina.”

 

* * *

 

Glass cracked beneath their feet. The stormy light weakly issued from the low window, and in the reflected colours of the stain glass they saw the remains of cabinets, ransacked cupboards, the mummy crumbled to dust, empty holders and the upturned cash till.

It was empty. Each pamphlet, each book, each item and icon had been ripped clean. The grimy reverence of the place had gone. Instead, it was now a tomb.

“What the hell?” Richard picked over the wreckage, making his way to the staircase half hidden behind the cabinets. “Hello? Damn it, Garrett, who would steal from here?”

No reply. Richard stared at his back, at the uncharacteristic freeze in his friend’s muscles, and Garrett broke past him, storming up the steps.

“Leland!” He called, his camera swinging from his neck. “Are you here?”

“Damn it, Garrett!” Richard followed, cursing the noise. “Careful, please!”

On the landing, there were two doors. One, open, revealed a depressed bathroom. The other could only be Leland’s living quarters. The door was ajar, sunlight trimming the corners.

Black stains streaked the stairs to the room. Richard grabbed Garrett’s shoulder, tugging his shirt up tight between his fingers.

Garrett was brave. Richard was not. Garrett, like all brave stupid people, began to move, and Richard gurgled a plea in his throat.

But Garrett kept moving, and wherever Garrett went, Richard was going to go.

 

* * *

 

The crowds of well-dressed entrepreneurs passed Jim and Mina in gaggles of light conversations, the clicks of high heels, the shimmering froth of champagne.

“…and I believe she is having an affair,” Benjamina explained, obviously an authority on these matters. “Can’t say I blame her. Marrying an eighty odd is fine for security, but hardly enough for the cruder appetites…”

Jim hid his smile, reaching for his glass of cava. A ringed hand stole it off the table.

“Why, Mina,” John took a sip, dripping charm like pearls. “You look lovely.”

“Hello, John.” She replied stiffly. Unlike the other patrons, she stubbornly held his stare. “I trust you’re well? You were rather ill a few days ago.”

“Greatly exaggerated.” Silver’s gaze was drifting toward Jim. Mina was following it, a purse in her lips. Jim wished he had something to occupy his hands. “I wonder if I may borrow young Jim for a moment? Boring talk, no intrigue for a refined lady of the world as yourself.”

Mina folded her hands in her lap and nodded curtly.

“Only if Mr. Hawkins wishes to.”

“I won’t be long. Thank you, Mis – Mina.”

She granted him a small, honied smile. Her glare became a dagger as Silver took Jim's arm.

“I must say, lad…” Silver whispered from the corner of his mouth. “…first name basis? I would watch your bedsheets. She’s quick and happy to hop from one to the next.”

“Don’t say that. _Jesus,_ Silver…”

Silver expertly navigated him through the crowds, finding refuge in a corner conveniently out of sight.

“Oh…” Silver held up his hands as Jim pulled away. “Tetchy, lad?”

“Don’t talk about her like that.” Jim wiped his hands on his suit. “You’ve got a quick wit, John. Use it for more deserving targets.”

“Like what?” Silver pressed him quick against the pillar, loosening Jim’s tie. Jim’s throat bobbed. “Smollett? Arrow? Can’t say I agree with Mina’s topic of conversation, lad.”

“What kind of…”

“Didn’t have her down as the mawkish type.” Silver was amused, but there was no joy in it. Instead, a reveling spite. He took a puff of his cigarette. “All that shit about him lookin’ at you like a son.”

“How did you…?” Jim grabbed his lapels, temper making his judgement fly, and Silver chuckled, delighted. “How did you hear? You were nowhere near close enough.”

Silver tapped his nose with a smirk.

“I hear everything, lad.” He said thoughtfully. “Nothin’ escapes John’s notice. You know that.” His hand slid between Jim’s legs, teasing. Jim jerked, pushing back against the pillar. “Not even this.”

“Is that what you wanted?” Jim panted as Silver made quick work of his shirt, all his scars on keen display. Silver made a pleasurable sound at that, kissing his collarbone. “To do this? Now?”

“Hm…bored, Jim.” Silver was drawing dangerously close to his neck; Jim deliberately kept his head to the side. “I thought a young thing like you would fancy a bit of fun.”

“Dangerous fun, isn’t it?” Jim tried to keep his senses in check. The dryness of the day had made him sleepy, timid, easy prey for Silver. At this moment, he was failing. Badly. “You always -!”

Jim cried out. It wasn’t pleasure, nor pain, but the tender bite hidden snug in his upper thigh. Silver paused, contemplative, and explored the wound with his thumb.

“You…” The nightmares, the confusion, the mockery fell to a belated anger. “You _bit_ me, John.”

“Hmmm…” Silver slit the gouge with his nail. Casually, he licked the blood off his thumb, staring unrepentant, at Jim. His irises wavered, the green blacking, the pupil becoming swallowed whole. “So I did.”

Jim waited for the light to turn, the fever dream to fade. But no. Silver stood there, black in his eyeballs, smiling as fresh as Spain sunshine.

Jim struggled, cradling his pounding head. Silver stopped him.

“You not be frightened of me?” Silver’s teeth glimmered in the dark, as if backlit by some unnatural glow. “Why, Jim. You be frightened of your John?”

“You’re sick.” Jim whispered. The titters of the party conversation were too far away to hear. Silver’s wandering thumb brushed Jim’s stubborn chin, pushing his head back, revealing the marring. He whistled through his teeth at the sight, ravenous. “You’re drinking blood, Silver.”

“I’m a chef, Jim,” Silver said easily, lifting Jim’s wrist, as if to examine it. He seemed unfazed by the admission. For Jim, it was as if it had been forced from his lungs. “I have a taste for essence, for flavour.”

“My blood is not essence,” Jim hissed. “I cannot believe I have to say this to you, John, but you cannot drink my blood.”

“Not drinking, tasting.” Silver chuckled. “Oh lad, if I wanted a drink, well. Ye would not be here.”

Silver paused, as if to contemplate what he said.

He thrashed his leg, catching Silver, who doubled at the swat, laughing through his surprise.

“Lad, lad!” He calmed as Jim swore, digging nails into Silver’s skin. Their faces were too close together, the breath between them electric. Jim cursed and loved it, even with his unease creeping cold on his spine. “Easy! Ye think I would hurt you, hm?”

“Your eyes…”

“Lost in them, are you?” Silver smiled up at him, all human again. “Why lad, why all the fuss?”

Jim put his head back and scrutinised the spreading grin.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” He said, quietly. “You’re playing a game with me.”

“Oh ho, lad!” Silver’s eyes crinkled. “What kind of jape be I pullin’? You know I like a good tease, but…” He kissed the turn of Jim’s wrist, playing his tongue against the bulged veins. “You know I never lie to you, lad. Everything be in plain sight.”

Jim’s voice cracked.

“You’re a damn good lair.”

“As are you…” Silver’s beard tickled along Jim’s palm, his fingers. “For sayin’ you don’t like the danger of this, lad. The _darkness_ of me…” He hovered closer, a touch of loathing, self-aware, in his words. “…lettin’ a petty thug from the docks have his way with ye.”

“Goddamn it, John…”

“You’re blushin’.” Silver combed his fingers against Jim’s cheeks. “My Jim-Lad, so new.”

A long tongue extended from his maw, brick red. Jim tensed, terror blinding his arousal as it shifted from his sightline, and oh god, it was on his neck, but so were Silver’s lips, and maybe, maybe it hadn’t been so long, maybe he had imagined it, maybe –

“You’re not a thug.” Jim uttered against Silver’s ear. It was a distinctly human thing to say. A distraction, but more importantly, a truth. “I never thought that.”

Silver’s lashes fluttered against Jim’s cheek, a pause in his travelling kiss.

“Aye.” He replied, gentle. “The only one, lad.”

* * *

 

Unlike the reminder of the house, this room had a blinder of sunlight. The windows were open and faced toward the sea. Burnt down cigarettes sat abandoned in the ashtray. Stuffed boxes were jammed under a single bed. The shelves were stacked with tinned food, photographs, fishing supplies.

Leland was sat beside the open shutters, thin curtains fluttering against the remains of his neck. His head was flung back, his eyes dull and open and staring at nothing. His skin was shrunken, grey, as if sucked back onto his bones. Across the visible patches of skin were tiny pocked bites, circling the great slab of dead meat where the jugular had been bitten clean.

_Bitten._

Garrett stood very, very still. In his mind’s eye was the shark, lain sad and dry. He reached out toward Leland, wondering, his mind whirring amongst the panic sick in the air.

“It’s like the shark,” He said. “The same bites. The same bloodless carnage.”

“We’re in trouble.” Garrett could feel Richard, burrowed into his back, his t-shirt damp from tears and spit. “We’re in serious fucking trouble, Garrett.”

“Why leave it like this?” Garrett took a step forward, towards the body, and Richard almost fell on his face. “Why not get rid of the body?”

“He’s a no-one, isn’t he? The local drunk or something? Maybe he wasn’t worth hiding. Maybe it was a suicide.”

“Afraid not.” Garrett held out his hand, the lonely ring a glint on his dark finger. He licked his lips and shook his head. “This was an act of terrorism.”

“What? What the fuck?” Richard spun him, his eyes explosions in his head. Garrett was shocked, then guilty; he had seriously underestimated the fear of his friend. “Terrorism? Who would tear apart a junk shop, Garrett?”

“Exactly.” Garrett squeezed his shoulder. “This isn’t a junk shop. This was a symbol of hope for the people who live here, no matter how old the folklore. It had books talking about the demons that once took this place to its knees. It had charms that warded them off. It gave people tools and information. It’s all been destroyed. And now…” He looked back sorrowfully at Leland. “…they’ve murdered the curator, just to be sure. Nobody has the weapons, nobody has the information easy to hand. This is a way of saying we’re back, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“That’s…” Richard pulsed his jaw. Garrett waited patiently for the _impossible,_ the _bullshit,_ the _you’re crazy_. “That’s horrible.”

“Yeah.”

Garrett thought feverishly of the books in his room, the ring on his finger. He touched the body of it, the balminess of it against his skin. Jim.

“There might be something in these boxes,” Richard was ignoring the body as successfully as Arrow with a large spider. He knelt on the floorboards, pulling them free. “Something. Anything.”

Garrett had read about times like these in his books. Times where you called the police, or didn’t disturb a crime scene, or screamed loud and it cut to black. But now, he understood why the protagonists in his beloved crime or horror novels didn’t engage the mundane. Nothing here was mundane. It was if they had entered a heightened reality, a world of monsters, where the classic courses of action were fruitless, useless, where nobody would believe you anyway. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. It was helpless and ugly.

“Wait.” He threw Richard a serviette he had tucked in his back pocket. “Fingerprints, you know.”

“Fingerprints,” Richard laughed weakly, a little hysterical. “Don’t want whatever the fuck is out there to identify us so easy, yeah?”

The clouds met above the sea, and rain began to patter on Leland’s cold cheeks.

 

* * *

 

A spray of shattering glass shook the civilized conversation.

“What is it?” Jim said, still dazed. Silver was peering out toward the crowd. A figure stumbled drunk, knocking back against the security guards, bleating a mad rush of pleas. Silver snickered. He released Jim and lit a fresh cigarette.

“Nothin’ to worry about, lad.” He blew out a long plume, attaching the cigarette back to his lips. “Just an idiot, tryin’ to make a point.”

“John…”

Jim went to look, but Silver’s palm on his chest steadied him back against the pillar. The show of force was gentled by a kiss on his forehead.  

“We’ll worry about this later, lad.”

“Silver…” Jim gripped his shirt, the fabric straining between his fist. “If something was wrong, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

Silver’s bemusement was touched by affection, irritation, a touch of admiration. Love, as Jim had come to recognize it in Silver.

“Lad…” Silver whispered. “What makes you think anything is wrong?”

“You would tell me.”

“Only if you accept it.”

“You think I wouldn’t?”

“Silver!” A slurred yell. Hashem, and yes, it was Hashem, filthy and frightened, an ugly sight in the centre of the ballroom. His prim suit was torn at the shoulders, his hair dull and stuck to his thin forehead. Jim, dull with shock, shadowed Silver, who strode confident into sight. “Come out, you bastard! Come and show them all whom you really are!”

“Joseph…” Smollett was there, supporting his side, acting with more decency then the entire room combined. The reminder of the businessmen and women were standing in shock, and as far as Jim could detect, a visible fear. Arrow joined Smollett, tugging Hashem’s arm around his neck. “Joseph, please. Let you us take you somewhere quiet.”

“No!” Hashem flung them off, stabbing a finger at the air where Silver approached, composed. “I want to know. I want them to know of this thug in their midst! This _thing!”_

“Good afternoon, Joseph.” Silver spoke, polite. “My, what a preach you’re giving.”

The sight of Silver balled the whites of Hashem’s eyes, and he became silent, standing upright, his lip quivering. Smollett glanced at Silver, aghast.

“Come now, Joseph,” Silver extended his hand. “I be a reasonable man. Let us discuss this.”

There was a knife on the table. It was for cutting the lemon custard cake, the main centre piece of the day. The cake was tiered up high, white marzipan and cherry frosting that had dribbled in the heat. It was the same knife that Hashem snatched from the table, in the blur of his mania, and the same knife that Jim caught in his hand as Hashem rushed the distance between himself and Silver.

Jim seized Hashem’s hands, backing the sobbing man against the tables. Blood was black against his tie and shirt. The serrated side of the knife was shallowly sunk into his chest.

Jerry was there first, then Smollett, then the security. Jim bypassed the fussing hands, steadying his bleeding with a napkin palmed to his breast. He did not look at Silver. He didn’t want to.

“Jim, darling!” Mina embraced him, furious and motherly, all at once. “What were you thinking, you silly brave boy. Let me see…”

“I’m alright.” Jim had gotten used to it, the discomfort of slit flesh, of blood warm beneath his clothes. He moved from the scene, fumbling in his pocket for his room key. The chaos offered him a way out of the ballroom, an excuse to escape the memory of Joseph Hashem’s hollowed, frantic eyes.

He dived into the elevator, patting away at his chest. As for his shirt, he could feel the blood bubbling afresh. Napkin or no napkin, it was going to be stained beyond wear. Jim swore, unbuttoning his shirt as the doors slicked open. As he entered the hallway, a deadening silence had fallen.

All noise from the party had dwindled.

The upper floor hallways had no windows, as if sunshine was cheap. Jim moved slowly across, fumbling in his spare key to Silver’s room. Not that he planned to stay.

The overhead lamps flittered. Jim stopped, his key aloft, his naked chest dribbling blood.

The lights at the far end died, followed by the next, then the next. A bulb smacked out behind him. Jim jumped, turned toward the encroaching dark, and found himself left standing in a single spotlight.

_Scratch._

The carpet rippled, a shape slithering beneath the red speckled patterns of the luxury suites. Jim’s neck began to tingle, to torture. He rubbed it, wincing, as the upholstery continued to strain, to swell.

Jim dropped his hand. He watched transfixed as nails pushed through the stitches, splitting the seams. The hand extended further, limbs creaking with the effort, and on its grey wet finger was a ring, a ring of old gold and toothed stones.

It uncoiled its fingers and dropped something heavy at Jim’s feet.

“Lad?”

Jim spun with a cry. But it was only Silver, folding the bloodied napkin into his breast pocket. Jim hadn’t heard the footsteps, nor the bell of the elevator.

 “Jim.” Silver mused, concern only secondary to the gaze hungrily locked on Jim’s bare chest. “My, doing a runner? After that display?”

His face was full of affection. Jim looked behind him. The lights were on, the carpet was untouched.

By his foot was the skull talisman.

“Uh, no I…” Jim scooped it quickly up, making sure to jangle the keys for effect. “Misplaced the spare key. Wanted to clean myself up in privacy.”

“Privacy.” Silver clicked his tongue. “Good idea, that be.”

“Silver…god damn.” Jim brushed past him, pulling his shirt across his chest. He reached the door, Silver a determined shadow behind him. “Now? After what just happened?”

 “Oh…” Silver touched his face. “My hero, you be.”

Jim barged past into the bedroom.

“I’m not in the mood, Silver.”

“Oh?”

“What happened? With Hashem?”

“Hm…” Silver slammed the door. The hangers in the cupboard rattled with the force of it. “I have no idea, lad. Too many highballs, me reckons.”

“I may be young, Silver.” Jim yanked off his shirt and tie. Silver’s face lit at the sight. “But I am not a fool. It was that deal, wasn’t it?”

“A deal, lad? Oh no.” Silver smiled, sharp toothed. Jim clutched his head, smoothing his fringe from his brow. He needed a haircut. A drink. A psychologist. “It was only a promise, wasn’t it?”

Jim snapped.

“Don’t fuck with me, John.”

“Ah!” Silver held up his hand. “None of that tone. Nor that language. Doesn’t sit right on your tongue.”

“He used a goddamn knife on you!” The walls rang with Jim’s shout. “Or have you forgotten? Or is that another thing you can sweep under the carpet as you like?”

“That be a little harder to.”

“No shit!”

Silver chuckled. Then he began to laugh, his raw ripe laugh. It had been a while since Jim had heard it, each merry octave, and so comforting it was, that Jim sunk onto the bed, exhausted.

“You kill me, John.”

“You have no idea, lad.” Silver stood over him, his hands on Jim’s head, his shoulders, his chest. Jim knew what he was after. What he craved. “My, coming to my rescue like that…”

“I couldn’t bear it,” Jim said lowly. His eyes tingled. “I couldn’t…”

“I love you, Jim.” Silver declared as he lowered his head to Jim’s chest. “My Jim.”

He licked a clean line of blood from Jim’s gouge. Jim hiked up the sheets with his heels, writhing lightly with the pain, and beneath that, the familiar electricity, a hotwire in his body. Silver sucked, purring against Jim’s skin, sending the boy silly.

“Mr Silver…”

The balcony curtains floated eerie in the light of the early evening. They smoothed past a face. Jerry Calico, standing tall and gaunt on the balcony.

Jim lifted his head off the pillow, aghast. His sight blurred, the wound making him weak. _How did…!_

Silver raised his head from Jim’s stomach, a growl in his throat. Blood trailed from his lips.

“Mr Calico,” he snarled. In his voice there were echoes, merging in and out of each other, low and velvet, high and wispy. “Can you not see that I am _busy?”_

“Silver…” Jerry took a step forward. He gawked at Jim, at the blood on his chest, the blood trickled on Silver’s chin. “We have him.”

“Hm.” Silver sat up, licking his fingers. His pupils were burst against the circles of his green iris, gold streaked through like veins. “So it be, then.”

“John…” Jerry mumbled, rising behind Silver. He wet his lips, the long shadows hiding his face. “Can I…I _want_ …”

Jim shifted up the bed slowly, closing his shirt.

Silver stood up, patting the bloodied napkin in his pocket.

“Touch ‘im…” he whispered. “And I'll do to you what I did to Bernie.”

“Silver…” Jim caught his wrist. Silver half turned toward him, the open balcony and a shrinking Jerry behind him. “Where are you going?”

“To deal with business, lad.” The sky darkened through the open windows, clouds clashing against each other, rain a shining dreg in the deadening light. He kissed his brow. “Sleep now, lad. Heal.”

Jim closed his eyes. He felt the roughness of Jim’s beard, the deceptive softness of the mouth, then the pull as the sensation left. The shuffle of fabric, the shutting of the door.

Jim opened his eyes.

He was alone. The balcony doors were bolted shut.

Jim touched the cut on his breast, and saw it was dry and bloodless.

Grabbing his jacket from the chair, he fled quickly from the room.

 

* * *

 

The rain leaked through the rooftop, the window. Richard couldn’t feel it. He could see the storm lashing the horizon, taste the dank bitter salt of the seabed. But he couldn’t feel it.

He was numb.

Garret was knelt beside him, his hand on his shoulder, squeezing until painful.

Laid out on the floor was a patchwork of photographs. Leland, on his boat in Bristol. Leland, sat on a seawall with a cigarette. Leland, barely twenty, his arm around a thickset girl with a messy fringe and a pleasant face, a girl a dime a dozen in Bristol, if not for the baby jut of her jaw, the droop of her eyes, the keen spark hidden in the corner of her smile.

Leland had his head turned toward her, sunny teenage love, his cap off and his hair a dusty gold in the sun. Her, in old Oxfam jeans and an oversized t-shirt for _The Pogues._ Around her neck hung a battered compass, resting lightly on the first hint of a baby bump.

They had seen her face before, in logbooks and adoption folders, only thinner and sicker and her head soft and bald like an egg. They had seen her face on corkboards, on bedside tables, in lockets twinned with hair and Christmas cards.

On a bedside cabinet in a foster home.

“This can’t…oh god…” Richard choked in his throat. “God please, tell me this isn’t true.”

* * *

 

As a kid, Jim had been good at hide and seek. He had a gift for creeping unnoticed, for disappearing one moment and scaring the bejesus out of Richard the next.

This skill was another one that Silver had unknowingly utilised from Jim, brought back to life. The other was lying. Jim had become good at that, too, although he had never lied as a child. Except for the lie that his Mum would get better.

The rain had finally stopped, as in preparation for this moment. Jim was crouched in the thick, rough bushes of the beach, his work trousers sandy and soaked at the joint. He was just far enough to see but not be seen.

Silver stood high among his men, his arms folded, shaking his head. It was a convivial display, a light disappointment as opposed to the rage bruised on Hashem's pale, preened face. The man's slacks were torn at the knee, his fine jacket ripped at the shoulders and back. Jerry stood behind Silver, all japes diminished. He wore the expression of the bodyguard.

"Oh, Hashem," Silver chucked his chin. "Joseph, you stupid fuckin' bastard. I'll 'ave you know, I'm on holiday, here to catch some sun and sweet eatin'. I don't want to do this, mark me."

"Then don't," the man spluttered, pathetic. Tears rose in his blackened eyes. "Please..."

Pea snorted. He lifted his big boot and slammed Hashem's head into the sand. There was a follow of brutal laughter. Hashem sobbed. Sand meshed against his gelled hair, blood on his temples.

"Now, now." Silver got on one knee. He took a cigarette from his top pocket. Jim knew John. He knew his rage. He had seen it at work, but this was different. John carried the temperament of one who had nothing to lose. One that was untouchable. "Don't make your final moments as small and as shit as the rest of your life, will ya? Have some respect, Joe."

Hashem's plea was choked by a blow of cigarette smoke.

"I didn't mean it," he whispered.

"Who did you tell?" was the cold reply.

"I..." Hashem shook his head. "I...I didn't..."

Silver nodded at Pea.

Hashem's head went down again. This time there was a _crunch._ Silver nodded again. The head was flung up and down, a choral of breaking bones. Pea bound his fist in Hashem's hair, yanking him up.

"Now..." Silver blew smoke in the mess of bone and missing teeth. Hashem was weeping weakly, eyes squeezed shut. Jim gagged. “Who did you tell?"

"S-Samuel Arrow," He burbled, through snot and blood. "I'm sorry, _please don't hurt me anymore..."_

"Easy there, Joe." Silver stood up. His pupils were dilating, his nostrils pinching as if inhaling the scent. "I believe we're done here, lads."

Hashem's eyes darted back and forth, terrified.

"You know, Joe," Silver took a long drag. "I was thinkin' of makin' it look like a suicide." He observed the burn of his cigarette, turning it in his fingers. "You know, it would make sense. All them underage girls. Your own daughter. Say you couldn't live with the guilt, hm?"

Hashem crumbled, his spilt lips crushing together in a gaggle of pleas. His blood was hot in the air. The men began to creep closer, fidgeting in their boots, looking toward Silver's turning back like dogs awaiting the command to take a treat.

"But that would be denying my lads," Silver added smoothly. "And I do keep my promises. You'll be aiding the community, Joe. A nice bit of recycling, methinks."

"Please...!"

"Silver," grunted Polly. He closed his huge hands, gnashing his teeth. "We're 'ungry Silver."

"Fine." Silver exhaled. "All yours, boys."

There was a beat. Hashem crouched on the ground, the men loitering about in a closing circle. And then -

Their bodies fell on Hashem in a cloud of ripping hands and ducking heads, and from Hashem there came a scream, piercing through the night, half hidden behind the sound of shredding cloth, an impressive creak and snap of pulled meat.

Hashem's hand stuck out in the swarming mass, and Jim saw the fingers curl and weaken as the moonlight shone in against flashes of yawning maws, fat with flesh.

Silver stood discreetly away, smoking, looking out toward the sea.

The freeze in Jim's muscles abated, fighting back the high swell of nausea in his stomach. He shrunk away, crawling back on his hands, shifting his backside against the soil and foliage.

Jerry stood up, wiping his mouth. He turned his neck and spat out a portion of the spinal column, bouncing it off into the grass. He left the mess, moving toward Silver, who offered him a cigarette.

Jim ran.

Each movement was far too loud, the skid of his trainers, the pound of water as he passed through the puddles. He ran until he reached the beginning of the driftwood path, the safe white snake of southern France.

They’d heard.

They must have heard.

Sil – that thing must have heard, must have scented his blood like a –

“Jim?” Two figures descended the bath. Garrett and Richard, their backpacks full of folders, books, photographs. They swam in front of him like ghosts, their faces full of a known horror and as Jim stared at them, and them back at him, he realised.

They _knew._

There, at the tip of the path, Jim’s head swam and his stomach swam and he vomited violently into the bushes.

 


	7. Them That Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note - Big apologies for the delay. Had personal projects/work taking all my time. Thanks for everyone who is sticking around for this story!  
> Warning - this chapter has some graphic imagery.

Richard tugged the chain across the hotel door, locking the latch down. On their way up here, through the panic of the night, he had envisioned battlements, wood at the windows, iron panic rooms. But all they had was the thin standard hotel door, with its lousy lock and the tiny chain that couldn't keep a baby in check.

"Sitting ducks," he muttered; "All we fucking are, sitting ducks, waiting to be roasted."

Garrett was on the bed, speaking lowly to Jim. Richard glanced back and had to turn away again. He couldn't even work up his customary jealousy.  As awful as this was for them - and Jesus Christ, it really was, what with the threats and the borderline hallucinations and the dead body - on some level, it seemed worse for Jim. Like, something really awful. To have seen Jim like that, staring out at them from the bushes, chalky skin and eyes scarred by a sight they hadn't dared to ask about.

Garrett was taking care of the whole "feelings" thing. Usually, he was good at it. But Jim wasn't responding. It was as if something had been switched off. Garrett touched him; Jim rose and walked to the window, shutting the curtains on the storm.

"Jim..." Garrett said, softly.

"Leave him," Richard said, harsher then he meant. He looked at his friend's back, brother in everything but blood. He had to do it, didn't he? His heart was pummelling his bones, but he had to be the bad guy. "I know you're in shock. So are we. But we've seen things, Jimbo. Things that I think are gonna come after and chew our arses in the night. We've got to compare notes."

Jim turned to look at him. Richard sucked in his breath. Hollows had burrowed in Jim's face, sinking down to his cheeks. In his face, he saw Leland, and the corpse too. The similarity was so striking he had no idea why he hadn't seen it at first.

"You've been seeing things, too?" he queried, hoarse.

Richard shook a little but nodded.

"Yeah," Garrett's voice made Richard jolt. He'd forgotten he was there. "Faces against the window. Red eyes..."

"Bodies," Richard murmured and sensed the snap of Garrett's neck toward him.

The bag, laden with photographs and useful scrap, sat on the bed, heavy with its terrible secret.

Richard wasn't sure if Jim could take much more. By the look on Garrett's face, he was thinking the same.

"I saw something tonight," Jim said dumbly. "I saw Mr Hashem."

The name cut a silence in the room; Garrett leant back, pushing his fingers through his hair. Richard had an itch to close his laptop lid.

"They ate him," Jim choked. "I watched." His expression turned; the dullness was gone, replaced by a slow, tearing realisation. "I couldn't do anything. They were tearing him to pieces, shoving him in their mouths...he was still screaming, I..."

"Easy," Richard took Jim by the shoulders - selfishly, more for himself than for Jim. Anything to halt that gasping monologue. "What do you mean, they ate him?"

Garrett was half off the bed. In his hand was the tourist book.

Jim just looked at him.

"Oh god." Richard's forced calm began to fail. "Oh god, we're fucked."

"It wasn't just the blood?" Garrett flicked through the book, settling on an open page.

"They were like animals," Jim whispered. Richard felt his hands on him, squeezing to painful. "And I've...I've been helping them. It's my fault, it's my..."

"No." Garrett was there, pushing into Jim, holding his face and shoulders, and colour rose hot to Richard's face, being there, held between them. "This is not your fault, Jim. This is no-one's fault. How could anyone - I swear, anyone Jim - predict this?"

 

* * *

 

"Has this convinced you?" Samuel's voice could be heard above the rain. He was certain of it. Thunder, earthquakes, floods. At this moment, he could beat them all, if only in the swell of his bitter triumph. "Did you not see that display? Is that no proof of everything I suspected?"

The real proof was sat on the table. Abraham, his face impassive, picked through Hashem's folder, his pupils moving across each line, each word. Behind him, Mina hovered, her hand on his shoulder. Although it was now the early hours, they were still dressed in their evening wear, and Benjamina looked practically perverse in her sparkles, offset by her husband's sobriety.

Smollett slowly closed the folder.

"Does anyone else know about this?" He asked, quietly. Mina's fingers squeezed his shoulder tighter.

"None that I know of," Samuel spoke a little gentler. Despite the storm, there was silence inside of Abe, painful processing. 

"I see." Smollett laid his hand on the folder.

"Should I contact the authorities, Abe?" Samuel demanded, softer than he meant.

"In due time," Smollett looked up. His face was grave, older in the half-light. "But first of all, I want Jim here, now."

 

* * *

 

"You won't believe it," scowled Richard. He was sick of the disbelief before he even saw it. They'd all been summoned like naughty schoolboys. "You'll call us disaffected and nuts and send us packing back to the hovel you found us in."

Smollett said nothing.

"That's enough!" Arrow sniped, and Richard met his cocky eye with one of his own. "Do not speak so ugly in front of -"

"Whatever it is," Smollett said mildly. "I will do my best to understand."

Richard exchanged a glance with Garrett. Jim was still behind him, with his freaky long distance stare, and all the cold it brought with it.

"I think," Garrett murmured, and Richard was amazed he was able to drag his eyes off Jim for one second. "That we show them the probable stuff first."

Richard pulled his laptop from under his arm and set it in front of Smollett.

"Knock yourself out," he said dully,

Smollett opened the lid. Around him, Arrow and Benjamina clustered, and Richard had the nasty thought of; _oh god, we're so few._

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, the amount of time it took for the three of them to pick through the files, and by the thinning in their faces, it certainly had the desired effect. Benjamina's gloved hand was slapped over her face and the grip on her husband's shoulder was so clawed Richard could imagine it was agony. Arrow looked disgusted, Smollett, as far as he could see, wore that same still expression.

"I'm sorry, everyone," Garrett cut in. He was holding the Gargoyles book like a personal Bible. "It gets worse."

"How?" Arrow strangled out. "Tell me, how can it be worse?"

"Hashem is dead," Garrett nodded, sympathetically. "Jim saw it."

Smollett snapped the lid down. Arrow opened his mouth, then closed it again, and the anger in his face faded.

"My god, what?" The harshness in Benjamina's made both men wilt. "What the actual fuck is going on?"

"I was hiding at the time," Jim stood beside Garrett. Richard closed into the left of him. Jim had seen things; those three hadn't, and if they cast even the slightest bit of doubt, Richard felt he would choke Arrow there and then. "They took Hashem to the cliff face, on a road separate from the driftwood path. They threatened him, made him tell Silver..." Jim swallowed at the name. An itch crept up the back of Richard's neck. "...who he'd snitched on. It was you, Mr.Arrow."

Arrow's jaw pulsed.

"They..." Jim continued. "It was like a bad dream. Silver kept speaking of "disappointing his boys." When he gave the word, I thought they were going to shoot him, beat him, and I..."

"It wasn't your fault, Jim," Smollett looked as if he was revisiting his personal nightmares. "You must understand that."

"He does," Richard said quickly, an awkward type of reassurance. "We told him that, didn't we, Garrett?"

But Garrett, as always, was focused on Jim.

"Go on, Jim," he urged. "You need them to understand what you saw."

Jim stared at Garrett for a long time, and his face softened just a little before the shadow returned.

"They ate him," Jim finished. "They tore him to pieces, eating him slowly, and Jerry...I saw him spit a bit of Hashem's spine into the grass."

There was no way it could be a lie. By the look of all them, there was no way, and the horror, it was real.

"That's..." Arrow shook his head. He was trying to be gentle, even as he glanced between Benjamina and Smollett, trying to coax them into agreeing. "No Jim. You were mistaken."

Garrett laid his book on the laptop, the appropriate page splayed open like a wound.

Jim just stared. His eyes were swollen with what he had seen and Arrow shut his mouth like a puppet having its string pulled.

"It gets worse," Garrett added helpfully, nodding toward the book. He took Jim's hand and squeezed it. "I'm sorry, Mr Arrow."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jim had checked Silver's bedroom, (their bedroom, but he did not mention that to Arrow, who haunted his back like a ghost, trying to peep into the private world they had shared.) It was eerily clean, bright, and above all things, empty.

Jim had promised to search his room for any more pamphlets. He mentioned, offhand, to Arrow that the room was possibly safe, for it was guarded by the gargoyle just above his window. Arrow looked at him as if he was mad and Jim let him believe it.

He was sure they all thought he was mad. Garrett, Richard, him. Maybe he'd gone off the deep end somewhere. But Smollett had not responded with a swift call to a mental health hospital. Benjamina had just looked disgusted, afraid, bemused. Arrow had taken to focusing on their first plan. The apprehension of John Silver for his crimes.

_Good luck with that,_ Jim had thought bitterly.

Even if he was going crazy, he still had gotten good at lying. He bypassed his room and ventured out instead, the day lit with the first sun they had seen in a while.

It was a Thursday morning. A trading day, as far as Jim knew, and so he guessed where Silver had gone.

The storms had retreated to a threatening rumble beneath the sky. The morning was soppy and humid. Jim had felt naked wandering from the hotel entrance to the driftwood path that led to the village. His body felt like a peach, ripe and soft and prone to breaking open to the slightest bruise of touch. As he passed the rough surf scuffed bushes, he saw the cliff where Hashem had trembled, and his gaze drifted down to the disturbed sand amongst the foliage, and bile raw in his throat.

 

* * *

 

Much like the bedroom they'd shared, Silver appeared eerily clean and bright. With a basket groaning with vegetables, fruit and meat, he gestured nonchalantly to the fishmonger to fetch his chosen fish from the tank.

The surrounding fisherman and elderly vendors were glancing up to the thick clouds overhead, muttering darkly between themselves. Between their legs, Stray whined and bit at himself.

In the bustle of the stalls, Jim lost himself, keeping a distance shy of Silver.  In the watery sunlight, the horror of the previous night flickered in his head like a click of a sadistic slideshow. The man knelt by Hashem's bloody, broken face, passed swiftly in his recollection, and was now replaced with Silver chuckling as he patted a young boy on the head, chatting chivalrously with the mother.

Jim's not so subtle spying led him to the same cafe where they'd made the "promise."  The booths were empty. In the galley kitchen, Silver was laying his ingredients on the counter.

"Hello, Jim," He slapped the fish on the cutting board and set about to fillet it. "My, it be a queer sight. You followin' me around, not comin' to introduce yourself."

Jim leant against the door, his arms cross-wired to his chest. Silver laid the fins, the guts, the head to one head. At Jim's silence, he looked up.

"What, lad?" He said, a little gentler. "Somethin' upsetting you?"

"You have a great eye for detail," Jim whispered. It was an ugly, feeble mutter.

Silver's lips twitched. He uttered a stiff, schoolboy laugh before one look at Jim made him stop. He lowered his cutting knife and set it beside the fish, wiping his hands on the tablecloth.

"Problem, laddie?"

"Do you think there might be?" Jim left the doorway, angling around the counter. "But if I was, why would I tell you?"

"Because that's what we do, Jim," Silver replied smoothly. "We trust one another."

"Do you trust me, truly?"

"Naturally, lad."

"Then..." Jim closed the distance and placed his palms flat on the counter. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Hm." Silver took out the frying pan. "Why, lad. It be a shame to let this fish spoil. Why do you sit with me as I cook as some breakfast, and my, I might be able to tell you a story."

"A story?" Jim choked out. But he knew the game, as much as he ever did, and despite the lax in Silver's shoulders, his jaw was firm. So Jim gnawed back his bile and sat, stiffly, by the counter.

"You like stories," he said. "You like them because they make everything easier to understand. Make things sound far away and separate from who..." He almost said what."...you are now."

"Now that ain't true, Jim-Lad," Silver's response was uncharacteristically sombre. "Why I use stories for that, sometimes, but also for the pain, and I can tell you, lad, there has been little in my life that hasn't had pain poured through it like a poison."

 

* * *

 

"How are we supposed to believe this?" Arrow had crossed the room from the desk to the bed to back again. He'd even gone into the bathroom and proclaimed loudly to no one in particular; "What is going on in the world?"

"Goddamn it, Sam!" Benjamina swatted at him. She'd shuffled out of her glitzy dress, washed the makeup off her face. To Richard, it was as if another woman had been erected in her place. A tired, frustrated, ageing blonde with a twang stuck to her tongue. "Sit down, will you? We've got enough problems without you tiring out the carpet."

"You're not baffled by this?"

"I've been baffled by too much in my life for this to top this," she circled her fingers on her temple. "Although I'm hoping it’s all a gaff, a misunderstanding."

So did Richard. He'd hoped they'd all wake up to a camera stuffed in their face and the tinny echo of canned laughter and they could all sue the bastards for damages. But he knew that wasn't the case. He was so aware that it wasn't the case it was almost tragic.

He wished Garrett was here, but he'd taken off with Smollett to find any other investors in the hotel. Whether it was to gain evidence, find solidarity, or maybe just to gossip about Jim, he just wasn't sure.

"You know, it's strange," Benjamina sighed. "I've seen no other person since the party."

"Hashem's display drove them all off," scoffed Arrow, before he cleared his throat and added dutifully; "God rest his soul."

"I missed that," Richard muttered, picking the last of the X off his XMEN t-shirt.

"Oh, it was quite obscene," Benjamina said breezily. "He ran screaming into the centre of the hall, flung himself on Silver and tried to knife Jim."

"I missed that?!"

Knock, knock.

"Finally," Arrow pushed between them. "Hopefully now, we'll find some sense in the..."

"Hullo there, Sammy," Jerry was grinning, hands curled around the doorframe. He looked so big. Viens pulsed down his brawny knuckles, fine dark hairs sprouting down his fingers, lining to his thick, curved nails. "You enjoying your holiday?"

"Close the door," Richard squeaked. He was behind Benjamina in a second, gripping her cold shaking arm. "Close the fucking door, please!"

"Now, now Ricky!" Jerry shook his head, all good-natured. He shoved past Arrow. The man fell, and with a grunt, struck his head on the corner of the oak cabinet. "So dramatic, lad. Why I be here only for a chat."

"God damn it, Jerry!" Mina spoke with a furious familiarity. She ripped up a bath towel and pressed it to Arrow's bleeding head. "Stop swaggering around like a wide boy. "

The blood stank. Richard didn't know that blood could stink, or if he could smell it at all, but one look at Jerry's wolfish smile was enough for him to smell it, feel it, clogging the air like a death perfume.

"Lay off, Minnie," he chuckled. "Why, give her a diamond ring and a name and ye forgot where you came from. No matter where you go, love, you'll still Bernie's salty slapper."

"Don't talk to her like that!" snarled Arrow. Blood dribbled between his brows. "Or so help me..."

"So help what?" Jerry spun on his heel. He was big, bigger than ever, his face falling from a smirk to a sneer. "You're gonna do what, Sammy? Got a feelin' ya soft types don't like to get your hands dirty."

"What do you want?" Richard squeaked. All three pairs of eyes turned toward him.

"Just you, Ricky," Jerry said, smiling again. "I like ya, lad. You're quick with yer thoughts and as smart as paint. Sayin' nothin' of your computer skills. Me, I be so slow, can't boot up MS paint."

His eyes began to roll up in his head. The whites began to pink, veins pulsing and pulling up the eye until a big, apple iris shivered inside the sockets.

"What are you doing?" shrieked Benjamina. She stood up tall and dropped the bloody towel.  "Turn around and look at me, Calico."

Richard stared, transfixed. Sweat bled out of him.

"You don't want that," he warned.

Benjamina whipped up the heavy table lamp, the wire tugged free from the wall. She held it aloft, scowling.

"Turn around now, Calico," she cried. "Or I'll recycle this tacky lamp in the back of your head!"

Arrow shook his head, speechless, blood now on his cheek and hands.

Jerry ground his teeth in his head. He turned back to them, slowly, like a slow burn scene from a horror film.

White heavy porcelain smashed into Jerry's face, reeling him back with a howl. Blood splattered across his neck, bubbling between the claws held to his face. A foul smell attacked the air. It was rank and metallic and dead.

Richard swivelled around him, feet painfully slow to catch up with his terror. Arrow caught him by the wrist. His blood - pale, dried around his hairline - was human. Richard felt queasy. He never thought he would see human blood or animal blood as anything other than blood. But the blood - god, he hated that, he could sense a serious case of hemophobia developing - washing Jerry's face was gloopy, granite black, slipping slow.

Richard was faintly aware of being pulled. The world was moving like a paused VHS, stuttering and static.

Another grip, hard and insistent, latched his other arm.

Jerry was leering through the shredded remains of his face, pulling him closer, like a nightmare conveyer belt.

"C'mon, Ricky," He purred. "C'mon now, ye little bastard, you be coming with me!"

If he was coming or not, Richard never found out, for another lamp - oh, there were two, matching like, Richard thought, faint and displaced and more than hysterical - joined the other in his face, and he screamed, swore, and let go.

 

* * *

 

The hotel hall ceiling was so _ugly._

Arrow's face came sharply into view. Richard blanched and rolled off his lap.

Jerry's yowls were distant now, locked securely behind the door by Benjamina's shaking hands.

"What happened?" He cradled his stomach. Sickness gurgled in his body, nausea a wave in his head. Bit by bit, he clamoured to put his senses back together.

Arrow's hand was on his back. It was disturbingly gentle.

"You fainted, Richard," He said, seriously. Richard looked at him between the mess of his multicoloured hair. His lip began to tremble. He bit it painfully and tasted his own blood. "You need to get up, son. We need to get somewhere safe."

 

* * *

 

The fried fish curled steam into the air. Silver set out the salad bowls, the buttered potatoes creamed with garlic, the asparagus tips fresh and topped with oil.

Jim sat frozen through it all with an empty plate and untouched utensils. Silver, never to be outdone, served Jim's plate before his own, and took a seat.

"C'mon, lad," he said, gently. "It'll go cold, and by golly, ye look like you've not had a decent meal in ages."

Jim hadn't - couldn't - eat. But he didn't know the games, not as yet, except there was one. As far as Silver was concerned, there was always a game.

Jim weighed his bets and took a slow, careful bite.

“You see, lad,” Silver didn’t touch his food. “When we left Spain, I be all a tizzy. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Why, a lad like you, finding something to want in a thing like me.”

_Thing was right,_ thought Jim.

Silver looked at him for a long time, as if memorising his face. Jim dutifully swallowed. The fish, like everything Silver took his skillet to, hurt with how good it tasted. Hunger growled raw in his stomach.

“When we came out of the airport, Jim,” he continued. “And I saw you leave, step into Arrow’s car, and I thought, that be the last I see of him, and oh it stung, the very idea. I knew Arrow and I knew meself and I knew there be a shaky future here, at best, but I have never backed down if there be something I want.”

Jim took a serving of the potatoes. He said nothing.

“Why, Jim.” Silver’s hand twitched suddenly as if to reach for him. Jim laid his hands in his lap. “I come back from Spain, and there be a call from an old friend. He be stayin’ in this very place, in this very hotel, and says he wants to see me. I say what for. I know him to be bad news, back from the days of the dock and the chippy. Back from the days when I could still bend both organic knees.”

The implication rang clear. Jim did not have a name to put to the face, but Silver’s hand settled on his false limb and squeezed hard.

“And I say,” Bitterness began to colour his words. “Why be that. For as far as I could see, he be nothin’ but a ghost from the past and a blasted spectre at that. But he has holds, you see. Holds even over me, and how I hated him for that, dangling all past wrongs like bait, and I have no say. I think of you, Jim. I think of you, and that summer, and I wanted to say no. I _did…”_

Jim took another bite, if only to distract his mouth from opening. To distract from the comfort, he involuntarily wanted to give, how short and disgusting the notion was. He swallowed instead and shivered at the brief desperation in Silver’s words. John wanted him to understand. Jim could understand to a point. He could understand how somebody as prideful, as powerful, as single-minded as Silver would detest the thought of being beholden to anybody.

“…I have no choice. So I say, once more, for old times sake. But not here, says he. No, he wants to meet at a port in the Caribbean. Says he can’t take to the air, so he takes a boat from this here docks, and I say, that be a long trip, Bernie.”

“Bernie?” The echo of Jim’s interruption was too loud. Silver sat up, brightened at the prospect of Jim’s attention. “Bernie? I’ve heard that name. You don’t mean…?”

“It be Flint, Jim.” Silver’s smile was slow and pained. Jim’s chair legs scraped ugly across the paving, for Silver had reached for him again, at that moment. “Why, told you I used to make trouble, lad.”

_This shouldn’t surprise me,_ Jim thought. _After everything, this really shouldn’t._

“Anyway,” A hurt was visible in Silver, in the tight press of his lips. But Jim kept back, all attempts at appetite long dead. “It be odd, but I leave Bristol via air, come to his port. Just me and my Jerry, and we fake a letter to Smollett, sayin’ we be late, for there is a business trip I must attend. In the dead of night, we go there to his address. No men to be found, Jim. None of Flint’s old crew. Just Flint, in a backroom, looking mighty strange. I thought he was drunk. That he’d led me there on a merry chase. But he says; John, there be my clever friend. John, I need your help. You are not like the others. You knew the cost of things, you know how to wait. I can’t wait. Neither could the others. But I can, and you can.”

“Just him?” Jim glanced toward the empty pier, then back again to Silver, who sat solemn and pale. “Where were the others?”

“Hmm…” Silver tapped his cheek. “You be askin’ questions, now?”

“Heh.” Jim chuckled, hollow. “I think I can guess what happened to the men.”

“Terrible drinking habit did Flint have,” Silver announced with his old arrogance. “Couldn’t pace himself, ever. Would end up under the table most nights. Could get violent. Used to give Benjamina a black eye. Never sat well with me, that did.”

Benjamina’s name was a deliberate curiosity, a taunt. But Jim did not rise to it.

“Go on.”

“Eager for me to finish?”

“You can’t pander to me anymore,” Jim answered darkly. “Continue.”

“Well, well,” Silver chuckled. Shades of his old nastiness were starting to reassemble. “I quite like this demanding side of you, lad.”

Jim’s lip curled.

“Well.” Silver said, pushing the salad bowl toward Jim. Jim waited, as did Silver, before he relented and helped himself. Silver clucked his tongue, satisfied. “I think he’s gone mad, finally. That the devil drink has rotted his evil brain. So I stay, like you would with an invalid at a madhouse. Nod politely, offer light conversation as not to distress him. But then, he stands, and I see his body, see how mangled it is, and his shape is not right, and he be hiding inside a coat. Jerry is outside, smoking away, and I’m in there, with this thing. And he says he came here, made a deal with something he shouldn’t, unearthed something rotten because he was greedy. Won’t say what or how, and then he says, now hungry he be. Hmmm….”

Silver stretched, cracked his neck from side to side. Sweat began to collect in the crease of Jim’s fist.

“….and he is on me, in that moment. Says it doesn’t hurt, not really. That he cannot help himself, and I think, of course, he can’t, he always be so impulsive and thick, driven by whiskey and his dick and his temper. He bites me…”

Silver drew a nail from his shoulder to his abdomen.

“…tears me open. Blunders me worse than he ever did with that sledgehammer years back. I know I’m going to die, but I won’t go quietly. I slash his face with my knife, kept hidden in my coat pocket since I was a boy. He pins me and all the blood runs from his face, drips like jam, and I get a mouthful of it. It tastes wrong. Not like salt, but like something else. I try to spit it but I can’t. I look at him and see how whatever it is, it taken badly to him. I know it was because he’s weak. He can’t control it, whatever it is, and with his blood in my mouth, I know it to be mine. What he has, I now have, and god forbid have I have always been clever at working with what little I be given!”

He slammed his fist on the table, joyful in the memory, his head back in his signature laugh. Jim was ready to run.

“Oh, lad. Oh lad, I don’t know how I did it, if I did it at all. But it was a fight for the ages, it was, breakin’ every bit of furniture, him clawin’ and hissin’ and all those shapes in that huge coat he used to cover ‘imself, but he’s weakening, because I keep drinkin’ and I don’t know why. It was a siren call, that blood. It was a wretched taste but like your first shot of paint stripper vodka, ye can’t help it. You must try another and another, to see if it gets better. It was only when did I see with what was left of Flint in my human hands, I realised he was dead. That I’d bled him dry. I pulled off the coat, and there he was, so small and starved and normal in shape but cold as January. And then, I feel sick. I vomit blood. Jerry comes to fetch me, sees the state of the place, sees Flint. We bind his body in bags and bury it beneath the bunker, and I know nobody will come looking. And then, I think of you…”

The glaze in Silver’s eyes vanished. He looked straight ahead at Jim.

“…and that summer, and Spain. Of what we did. Of how different I felt, not like what I had to be, but what I could have been. And I feel sick, lad. I feel sick because I’ve killed a part of my history, that I drank blood and liked it. For days, the world reels. Jerry thinks I’m going mad, as do I, and I realise, that be what did it for Flint. He didn’t get past the gestation period, you see…”

“The _what_?” Hysterical, Jim shoved the table back. Silver blinked, almost comedic in his confusion. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Well, lad…” Silver replied lightly. “It didn’t take to him, ye see. He did too much at one time, didn’t take it slow, let himself mature. The process requires a little care.”

Jim thought of the bloody steak, the flask, the scars matted on his neck.

“I hate this story,” Jim stood. As did Silver, appearing far too thick, far too tall. “It’s a nightmare.”

“If you don’t like that story, lad,” Silver said, conversational. “I can always tell you another.”

“You…” Jim wiped the sweat off his brow. The fish and potatoes threatened his gullet. His head thrummed and his heart hammered and there was Silver, standing so calm, bemused. “You killed Hashem. I saw it.”

Silver’s face hardened, for a moment, and Jim saw the man on the beach the night previous before he hummed and rocked on his heels.

“So I did,” He said quietly. “And being that what it was, Jim, did you not know what darlin’ Hashem was?”

Jim had heard the truth fall on the air. _Your own daughter._

“So Hashem was a monster,” Jim declared. “Fine. But he needed to face court, not a public…”

He couldn’t say it, not quite. It died on his tongue. Silver smirked, triumphant.

“Dare I say, he wasn’t to my taste.”

“For fuck’s sake, John!” Jim swerved around the table. Silver followed, a mad game of ring around the roses. “Are you not seeing what you’ve become? What you’re doing?”

“I be as always, aware of my facilities, lad.” Silver smiled, flirtatiously wide. “Why, it be quite a lark now I think of it. Why, I feel like a new man.”

“You’re not a man anymore, are you?” Jim wondered if he could run. If he could make it, even. By the look on John’s face, he sensed Jim’s calculation and shook his head, slowly.

“You be right, lad.” He nodded. “I be more than that, now.”

“You’re a monster.” It was a cliché, but it tumbled out of Jim none the less. “You can’t control yourself, you’re no worse than Flint.”

“There it be, Jim!” Silver snickered. “And here I thought the boy had a good ear on him. It was because I can control meself that I am what I am now. Here I stand, Jim. Paragon of patience, be me!”

Jim’s gaze flickered to the door and back again. Silver noted it, and with another cluck of his tongue, dared him with his eyes.

Jim had an idea. It was stupid, he knew, but Silver looked sprang to fly if he tried anything, and he wondered if there were others, primed in the crowds or upstairs. He had no idea what eyes were watching, how Silver’s senses had altered.

"So you are saying..." Jim made his way toward the table as Silver stood, motionless. Taking his knife, he pulled up his shirt and touched it to his skin. "...that this doesn't affect you at all?"

Silver raised an eyebrow, but there was a visible hitch in his throat.

"Lad..." He whispered, hoarse. "Ohhh, I wouldn’t do that if I were **_you_**."

Jim breathed hard as Silver breathed harder, and he took the blade across his stomach, nicking a thin birth of blood.

Silver ran his tongue in the shadow of his lips.

Jim caught the blood on his finger. He hated this game. The red bulged on his nail, and with a shudder, he sucked it clean off.

Silver _moved._

As did Jim, the knife held between them.

"Liar," Jim whispered. "Liar."

"I'm not lying, lad," Silver was practically breathless. "It be...you don't what it be like..."

"Speak," Jim said coldly. "Speak and I might try to understand."

"It be like burning." Silver spread his hands. He inhaled, taking all the air with him. "Oh lad. It be like living. Life, right in front of your nose, just waiting to take it in. It be like the waves, lad. Like that horizon. Fuckin' fireworks, when it be in you, life and love as fresh and breezin' like the salt off the sea. I am a chef, Jim. I've made my trade among meats of different salt and breed. I know taste and sensation more than any man. And this...this be second to none."

Silver was taking steps forward; Jim, still wielding his knife, took steps back. The shadow of the counter was coming closer, closer to his back. By playing his so-called game, he’d hemmed himself in further.

"What is it?" Jim's knuckles were white. "Is it hunger? Thirst?"

"More than that, lad." The shadow of the sun deepened his brow, hiding his eyes from view. Jim bumped against the counter. Silver stopped short of him, close enough for their chests to touch. "Why, it be life itself."

"And mine?" Jim whispered. He couldn't help himself. The scar on his neck panged in sympathy.

"Yours, lad!" Silver rumbled. "Why, love. What a question." He pressed in closer. The knife faltered slightly. John came into the light. His irises were pinched red. His lips opened into a smile. Pushed up from behind his teeth were lines of thin fang, curling up and around his mouth. He stroked Jim's cheek, catching a curl of his hair and winding it around his finger. "That be finer than all. That be love, it be."

That word disarmed Jim. Here, of all places, for him to use that phrase. Here, with that face, for that word to fall between them.

"Nothing," Silver whispered with his left-hand creeping to the dribbling cut on Jim’s belly. "Is close to that, lad."

His fingers skimmed sweet beneath Jim's chin. With his other hand, he licked the blood clean off his palm, the drag of his long, long tongue red against the calloused flesh.

The knife clattered between them. Jim caught his wrist, halting the moment, feeling the stir and strength of Silver's tendons pulse and pull beneath his grip. This was the skin Jim knew. The skin that burned at cheap countertops, the skin gnawed by the elements and hard task, the skin rough from hauling rope. The skin rough on Jim's skin. The skin that now clothed the creature in front of him, slowly turning all that Jim knew into something he did not know.

Or maybe it had been John all along.

Silver growled, ferocious. The skull burned into his skin, just shy of where their shared compass hung, in the space above his heart.

“You lied to me.” Jim whispered. “From the beginning, you used me.”

“No, lad.” Through the pain, Silver smiled. “It didn’t even start out that way. True as it be, know that John loves you, Jim.”

“Liar.”

“No.”

“I want…” Jim wasn’t going to cry. Not here, not in front of Silver. Even as his face crumbled, he kept his demand strong. “…my father’s compass. Give it back.”

Silver’s eyes were as green as a sunny day in Barcelona.

“I would…” Silver touched his face. The skull blistered his skin, riding high and red and bloody. “…if you meant it, that is.”

Jim tore the skull away. Silver gasped at the lost agonising pressure of it, half sobbing, half laughing.

"Tell me, then," Jim cursed the knife between them on the floor. "What are you? Do you even have a name for what you are?"

"Hm?" Silver cradled his chest. Between his fingers, the skin was already beginning to blacken, to scab and knit together. Jim breathed in so hard he was almost faint. "Well, that be a mystery, lad. If darlin' Garret's book be anythin' to go by, well, I think they called us gargoyles."

"The gargoyle shop," Jim whispered. A strangeness took SIlver's face, a twitch in his eye. "They said it was ransacked. Everything burnt and disposed of. They said the owner..."

Silver's forefinger touched the cleft of Jim's lip.

The boy shut up immediately.

"Terrible accident that," he said. His fingers traced down Jim's chin, dropping into his neck. Jim's shirt shifted and he felt the pulse of Silver's touch on his scar.

"Gargoyles," Jim repeated. He looked him up and down and daring his tongue, snickered. "You may have funny eyes, Silver, but I say you are no gargoyle."

Silver brightened as if it was a compliment. Jim knew he was never so naive.

"Well, that be a kind thing to say, I'm sure," He was pressing closer. Jim was pinned against the counter. Silver's face hovered near his, threatening a kiss. "But so sweet be you, lad. You've not seen what I be capable of, not yet."

"I think I have a good idea by now," Jim bit back.

"Hm. Be as it may, lad..." His breath came closer and tingled the marred flesh, and a rush of heat ascended Jim's legs, licking hot in his belly, touching red on his cheeks. "Did ye not have a sense of it last night?"

"Ah!" Jim gripped Silver's shoulders, feeling the strain of the seams. "What are you doing?"

What was he doing? What had they been doing this entire time? He hadn't known, he hadn't thought, he'd been too afraid to think.

Silver raised his eyebrows.

"Why just being affectionate, Jim," he responded, good-natured, even as his eyes and teeth shone over bright. "Why, so jumpy. Need to unwind, hm?"

He kissed the corner of Jim's chin, sharpness scraping the corner of Jim's mouth. Blood trickled hot between his teeth and Jim groaned at it. The sensation of Silver shifted from his chin, the drag of beard and teeth relaxing the muscles in Jim's legs.

"Oh lad, you shiver so," The vibration of his words sang in Jim's skin. "Do you truly think I'll hurt you, hm? Be it may, I'll take off me other leg before I do so. But Jim..."

He took Jim's hand, and opening his shirt, pressed Jim's palm to the burn, which was now clean and white and fading away entirely.

"...you hurt me, lad."

Silver's fingers clenched in the thick of his hair and tugged back.

"God!" Jim gasped, as Silver seemed to emerge from himself. He squirmed, his body rising beneath Silver’s, desperate to choke him, kill him, kiss him.

"But I be a monster," Silver said, sweetly. His eyes swam green and black and his smile grew, grew, grew until it was touching the lobes of his ears. "So this be what wrong, lad."

Jim screwed up his eyes. He felt the fingers on the scruff of his crown begin to elongate, to curl and twist and become as claws, and like that, Jim began to sob. He took Silver’s spare wrist and kissed the dip of it, leaning his head against it, and like that, Silver’s grip tensed, held too tight, then released.

Jim opened his eyes.

Silver's face was pained, human even, as his eyes and skin had resumed their usual candour, and he sighed, suddenly, exhausted.

"I am what I am, lad," He said, dull. "I have fought too hard and long for what I have.  I am what I am, and have been for too long, and all that I have, I want for you, to share in my bounty, but I will not give up what I have. I will not waste my riches, my opportunity, all that I toiled for, and this…” He gestured to himself. “…this gift I’ve been given. The ability to move beyond all others and above. To have control of meself, lad. To not answer to anyone.”

"Is that supposed to help me to understand?"

"Are you frightened of me, Jim?"

His expression was plain, frowning. There was an awful sadness in it, and Jim thought of his spite and swagger with his men, and the charm and humour expressed discreetly in the corporate parties, and he wondered, briefly, if he was seeing his true face.

Hashem's strangled yell exploded in a fizz crack in his brain, but Jim pulled it away.

"You said you were losing yourself, a few days ago," Jim whispered.

"Hm." Silver nodded, thoughtful. "That I was, lad. Even me, this gift, it makes you a bit do-lally."

"So tell me..." The skull dangled from his fist. The sweat on Silver's brow told him he was barely tolerating it. "How do you plan to feed yourself?"

"Hm." Silver's arms were crushingly tight around him. Jim winced from it and Silver released, only a little. The strength of his arms, the natural weight and wire of them, had increased tenfold. It was certainly enough to comfort, to cling, to trap. "Be what it is, Jim-Lad. I have plans, so to say."

"What kind of plans, Silver?"

“Plans already in motion.” He grinned sadly, nastily. “Why, there be in action already.”

Jim froze.

“Garrett…” He swallowed. “Richard. You wouldn’t…”

“Oh, come on lad!” Silver ruffled his hair. “As if I be so wicked as to harm yer little friends. I wouldn’t do that. But my boys, they be impatient. As I can be…” He licked his lips. “If I don’t get my way.”

The tenderness and the terror rocked between them. Jim grabbed his wrist and squeezed it, warningly. His father’s compass was lain against the exposed bristle of Silver’s chest.

“And what is your way?”

Silver took a step backwards, releasing Jim. As he did so, he began to unbutton his shirt. A furious heat flared in Jim (it tasted more like shame.) The compass was fully revealed, circling on its cord. Silver curled his fingers around it, squeezing. The brass began to warp, to dent. Jim wheezed through his teeth. Silver squeezed a little harder. The glass began to constrain, the tiny arrow jabbing helplessly.

_“What is your way?”_ Jim shrieked, a rip of control, that once again crept Silver’s teeth to the tips of his cheeks. He removed his hand and the compass was unharmed, untouched. Jim scurried for his sanity, and then he thought;

_No, no. It’s a trick. I don’t know all he can do now, but I know he can make you see things that aren’t there._

“Do you truly think I would do that, Jim?” He said, friendly. “What kind of monster do you think I am?”

“The sort that eats people!” Jim was desperate to get out. To feel the air, the sun, anything. Even the rain and storm. But Silver had hemmed him in, breathing once again in the space of his neck.

“What do you think I want, lad?” He murmured, sweet.

“Money.”

“Hm. Got that.”

Jim almost said fame. But he knew better than that.

“Notoriety.”

“A big word, that.” Silver kissed his jaw. Jim turned his head away. A deep burring chuckle brushed the hairs on his skin. “But ye know me so well. Yes.”

“World peace,” Jim said, sarcastic. He fisted Silver’s shoulder, tearing the shirt at the seams, desperate to tear something, to hurt something. “Beauty. Happiness. Friendship. How the hell should I know what you want? You change your _goddamn mind_ every few minutes.”

“One thing I haven’t, though.” Without warning, his zipper was tugged down. Claws scraped the inside of Jim’s thigh, finding the heat. Jim lurched, mewling. “Be this, I think.”

“John…”

"Oh, lad." Silver whispered in Jim's ear. The weight and stillness of Silver's hand was driving Jim insane, crawling up his back with his nails. "You're hard."

"No," Jim shook, hating himself.

Silver was human again, goddamn it, but it hadn't helped. Jim realised with a lurch he had fallen for it all again. He had been so naive, so stupid, so...!

"So," Silver breathed in his ear, bemused. "You do like this, lad. Interesting."

"Please, Silver," Jim begged. "Please, please..."

"That's what I like to hear," came the throaty reply, and Jim felt the jerk of his fingers, and he could have swallowed his own tongue at that moment. "My Jim, askin' so sweet and polite like."

Silver was lifting Jim up by his hips, and Jim struggled in his arms, and Silver adjusted him to, Silver...

Bit. Him.

The skin opened, the blood rushed. Jim came so hard he near knocked himself out.

If he didn’t knock out Silver first.

How he did it with the blinders in his eyes, he would never know. His knuckles cracked as they caught bone. Silver leapt back, crossing the ground with a speed that blurred his edges like an oil painting. He stood up, slowly, wiping the blood from his beautiful mouth.

“Oh, you be a resilient one!” Silver hollered, dropping his hand to his side. The cut healed cleanly, creasing out and closing like fresh paper. “That be why I want you, lad. None like you, none on this earth.”

“Me?” Jim held the skull trembling to his chest. “You want me, do you?”

“Look, the lad’s caught up at last.” Silver was breathing strong, as if the reopening of Jim’s scar had awoken something. With a sigh, he tore off his shirt, moaning with the blood on his lips. His muscles pulsed in his neck, his back rolling with effort. Jim shimmered himself along the counter, down to where the open front gaped morning and sunshine like heavenly gates. “Think of how lovely it’ll be, lad. Think of how free you’ll be.”

“No.”

“Why, that be a short decision.”

“You’d be stupid if you thought my answer would be anything else.”

Silver did not seem to be listening. He spread in his skin, stretching out his arms. Claws grew, coiling from his fingertips, the sun a silken sheen through them. He curled his hands into himself, doubling as if in pain, his lips parting to reveal his teeth, fanged and full, pushing up his gums. His black hair waved as if agitated by an invisible wind, winding around his long face, layering down his bronzed, scarred back.

Jim held his stomach, speechless. A perverse fascination had him; he could not look away.

Silver rolled his shoulders, hissing in discomfort, then relief, for slicking between his shoulder blades was something delicately veined, black and shimmering, too weak for use, craning toward the floor, before in a flash, it was gone once again.

_Gestation._

The attempt exhausted Silver. He ran through his hair, looking down at the black gold of his business shoes. For a moment, Jim thought there was nought but beast behind his eyes, only for Silver to look up and smirk.

Jim shook his head. (He felt the dangle and swing of Silver’s hoop, weighing his ear.)

“I don’t understand.” He lied. He sniffed and tried again. Maybe he wasn’t as good as he thought. “But I do. I just can’t believe that something like this can be.”

Silver cocked back his head, musing. Even on the alien face, it was still Silver. Still that snark, that avarice, that damned incorrigible joy. Jim wondered if it – if he – could speak even. If this shamble of a final form had any kind of speech available to amble out of that shark tooth mouth.

But Silver had shared this, hadn’t he? If he spoke of Jim joining him, then surely…

“Your men, Silver,” Jim chided, holding up a hand as _It_ began to approach. “Did you give this to them?”

Silver shrugged.

 “Speak to me, goddamn you,” Sweat drenched Jim’s back. He looked back at the table with the fish and salad and thought of how human it was, how Silver had tricked each and all of them. How at one time, he had loved a man called Silver.

**“I shared it, I did.”**

Jim choked.

“How?”

**“It be easy, like.”** It was if it were a selection of voices, different pitches and tones, wafting in and out of each other, like the catch of a breath or the sway of the breeze. Tender John, dastardly Silver. **“It don’t hurt.”**

Jim groped at his stomach all the same. He thought of the blood, the taste of it, shrinking sanity down like a sieve of sense.

“No.” He said, louder this time.

Silver shrugged.

**“It be** your choice, lad,” He replied, dropping the voices like leaves. “I hate to fight you, I do.”

“This conversation is going nowhere.”

“It be clear how it’s going, my lad.” Silver nodded solemnly. “It be that, if ye don’t join me, I can’t be responsible for all that happens.”

“Speak plain for once in your life,” Exhausted, Jim slumped against the counter. “Please, John.”

“Fine.” Silver said coldly. “I had ye done brighter than that. But alright…” He leant in and tapped his nose. “Join me, and it be all as fine as Christmas. Don’t, and eh…” He smacked his lips, humming. “It be unfortunate.”

“Fuck you.” Jim laughed, mirthless. “Fuck you to hell. You’re so manipulative. Believe it or not, John, I’m not in the habit of selling my soul.”

“Weren’t so hesitant to sell it in Spain, were you?” was the cool response.

Jim tightened his jaw so hard he heard the bones click.

“You weren’t the same man back then.”

“Was I not?” Silver kissed the back of the compass. Jim flinched; his own lips burned with the intensity of it. “That be a strange thing, cos’ I remember bein’ there and all.”

“Nothing can forgive what you’ve done,” Jim said, and it was such a cliché thing to say, but he wasn’t clever enough to combat Silver, who could weave words like magic and leave him lost. Even now, even with murder and monsters, the world revolved so mad and cruel he couldn’t hold it. His anger and fear ran like water from his hands, as did the blood, now flowing freely from his neck. The pain burst, as fresh as the first time, and Silver was there, Silver was…

What?

He hadn’t seen him move, hadn’t heard the flurry of his shirt or the intent of his step, and Jim panicked, but the weight and warmth of him rose familiarly, comfort, as predictable as clockwork. Jim weakened, his mind fuzzing, his hands falling useless to his side.

“Do you not love me, Jim?” Jim almost gave in. Almost. For it was the whisper, cloaked in his old country accent, frustrated and fearful. Such a natural voice in such an unnatural body.

Jim was a rotten liar, so he didn’t even try.

“Yes.”

“There it be, then,” was the smug reply. Silver traced all his many teeth on Jim’s neck, bumping against his Adam’s apple. “But you won’t consider it, lad?”

“No.” Jim moaned. He twisted Silver’s curls in his grip, lying his head back further. He felt filthy and weak, but the answer came out, durable as ever, and Silver tutted.

“Fair, that,” He murmured, reasonable. “Aye. You be a good ‘un, Jim. So I’ll give ya a day to think on it. Get your friends on side.”

Jim was struggling to think. Hashem’s shriek echoed in his floating brain, shocking through like electricity, and he shuddered, but Silver still held him, resolute.

“Word of warning, Jim-Lad,” The creature had mouthfuls upon mouthfuls of eel teeth. Hair rose and wound around Jim’s wrists, keeping him stationary, helpless. “Be it that we can’t come to a reasonable arrangement, well…”

His voice coarsened, distorted, became as death.

**“Them that die will be the lucky ones, lad.”**

Pain incised Jim’s neck.

Jim woke, legs shaking, hurling in breath after breath as if brought in from drowning. Blood had stained his shirt, his hands, his face.

Light filtered in prettily through the open sun doors, even as the gloom of the threatening storms began to rumble and gather. Daylight winked off the discarded cooking utensils, the half-finished meal, the expertly arranged salad.

Jim was alone.

 

* * *

 

 

  There had been no one at the desk, no-one to pass them on the stairs. The entire hotel rang eerily silent, even with the return of the pretty weather. Smollett walked quickly through the marbled halls, his hand clasped tight on Garrett's wrist.

"There's nobody about." Garrett glanced this way and that. Beforehand, he'd seen families and businessman and couples milling in groups in the foyer. There hadn't been many, as the village was less known as a holiday destination, but enough to cause a pleasant bustle. "Has everyone left already?"

Garrett said it lightly, to lessen the impact of the truth, even if it was just a frail hope and nothing else. He said stuff like that sometimes if even to lessen the wiring in Richard's shoulders. He shouldn't have bothered. The grave eyes of Smollett turned back to him and Garrett bit his thumb, tearing through the skin. He'd have to blame Richard for the habit.

"Smollett," Garrett said, thinking. "They couldn't have taken everyone off. It'll be impossible. We don't know how many people here, how many staff are here, or even if Silver's men are stationed here as well."

It sounded awful, that. _Silver's men_ \- as if they were fighting a war. Smollett, who'd been awfully quiet, nodded slowly, as much for comfort as if he actually believed it in the first place. Garrett watched the spread of his back and thought how odd it was Smollett wasn't Jim's father. They were so alike in their processes. Silence, shame, self-blame. It was a kind of sad quality all good people had.

Silver didn't have it. Garrett had known that from the start. He was never suspicious of people. He just knew them when the time was right. But maybe Silver _had_ fooled him. He'd been witty and quick on the dime, freer and easier to like than smiley but awkward Smollett or prickly Arrow. He'd been so full of stories and jokes, paces ahead of the other older men, more a friend than a colleague.

Garrett scratched his head and mused. Maybe Richard was right (only sometimes, though.) Maybe somebody eager for everyone to like them at first glance must have an agenda. But Garrett observed Smollett's tired face and the white eating into the sides of his hair, and he guessed why Smollett hadn't stopped Jim from seeing Silver, for the other man had been everything Smollett was not, and maybe he'd felt guilty about that. But the more Garrett thought on it, the more he agreed silently with himself. He'd rather had Smollett than smirking, tricky Silver any day.

They were heading toward the food hall. (Richard had reasoned people always wanted to eat.) They passed the double doors and Garrett caught a look at the thick pillars that Richard had eavesdropped from the nights prior.

Fresh bread, fruit and juices lined the buffet. The tables were laid out for breakfast. Garrett released a sigh and hurried behind the older man. There were dishes of cold meat and cheese. Everything looked normal.

But still, no-one about.

Relieved, Smollett wrung out his hands and nodded toward the kitchen.

“Hopefully, if there is food, then somebody is preparing it,” he said, with a hint of his old optimism. “I suggest we check there.”

The kitchen was refreshingly boring. The reflective surfaces lay with knives and the shells of onions and vegetables. A large pot had been left to boil on the side. Froth crept from the lid and bubbled down the side of the steel container.

The enormous floor to ceiling fridge had been left ajar. Garrett approached it, curious, but there was a slip beneath his shoe. Collecting himself, he looked down. A smear of red was visible beneath his foot, soaking through the sole of his trainer.

The two men looked at each other, then back to the fridge door, and Garrett, despite a short, sharp protest from Smollett, kicked it open.

At first, Garrett thought it was a pig. The body was hung above the cold tiled floors, frost sticking in the hollows of the chest, funnelled under and inside the gaping maw, for there was no jaw to speak of, just the chilly pink of tongue and gum. There was no face to see. The meat - if you could even call it that - was dry and blue and bloodless. Black veins of liquid had dribbled and stained down the swinging legs, intended for a bucket sat clumsily beneath the figure, that brimmed with blood.

Smollett made a sound as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs. The flickering acrid lights caught the sick glint in his eye, and Garrett felt his hand on his shoulder, squeezing.

Like Smollett, Garrett had nothing to say. What could he say, truly? After the sight of that?

Garrett slammed the door shut. The kitchen had changed. All its chrome normalcy had taken on a different light. Impersonal, cold, a butchery. Garrett wondered if that was what animals saw in abattoirs, what they sensed and smelt. Now, the two of them were here, and now, now they were meat.

The knives and skillets and saucepans flurried against the wall. They knocked together in mighty clangs, an orchestra of awful, shadows flickering and giggling and shaking the bulbs in the overhead lights.

A flash.

They were surrounded by figures, shambling huge, heads hung from broken necks, soiled suits and shoes. Another flicker and they were all up, and looking, and smiling, arms outstretched.

The lights began to hiss and scream in the bulbs. Glass shattered and they were there, in darkness, alone.

Garrett grabbed Smollett by the wrist. The man was clammy, cold, easily directed back through the swinging doors into the dining lounge.

The buffet room awaited them like a bad dream. The fruit, the food, the meats and cheeses were rotten and crawling with maggots. The shutters had been placed up against the windows, killing off the sunlight.

Smollett gagged. He thrust Garrett behind him and snatched a steak knife off the table

“Stop.” Garrett touched his arm as if trying to gentle a wild horse. “They’re playing with us. Stop. Close your eyes, focus. This isn’t real.”

Smollett stared at him, and then, with seemingly all the self-control he could muster, he obeyed. Garrett joined him, anchoring him to his side, fiddling with his ring and praying under his breath.

The sunlight returned like the closing of a horror film. They were back in the breakfast room. All was clean and fresh and unchanged. Garrett left Smollett’s side to peer back inside the kitchen.

“It’s all back,” He said gently. “We’re wasting time here. We need to go upstairs, get the others, and get out.”

“Yes.” Smollett finally spoke. He looked as if he had aged ten years, so hollow were his cheeks. “We all need to be together.”

Maybe it was a pity, or terror, or the fact Garrett still wanted to believe it wasn’t real, but he’d neglected to tell Smollett of the body that still hung, bloodless and undisturbed, in the freezer.

 


End file.
